“And you walked away.”
“I chose safe,” she corrected softly. “Your father was steady. Reliable. He never made me afraid—not of losing him, not of anything. That felt like love back then.”
I swallowed. “And now?”
“Now I wonder if safe was just another word for small.”
The words landed between us like stones in still water. Ripples spread.
Daniel arrived ten minutes later.
He was tall, silver-haired, dressed in a linen shirt and pressed khakis that said money without shouting it. His smile was easy, warm, the kind that made you want to believe him. He kissed my mother’s cheek, lingered just long enough to make her flush, then turned to me.
“Lia. It’s good to finally meet you.”
His handshake was firm. His eyes were kind.
But something in the way he looked at my mother—like she was a prize he’d waited decades to reclaim—set my teeth on edge.
We ordered coffee. Small talk. Weather, travel, Charleston’s charm. Then Daniel leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I never stopped thinking about her,” he said, looking straight at me. “When she chose your father, I understood. But I never agreed.”
My mother’s hand trembled slightly on her cup.
I kept my voice even. “And now?”
“Now I want what we should have had then.”
Simple. Direct. Possessive in a velvet way.
My stomach twisted.
We talked for another hour. Daniel was charming, attentive, full of stories about their shared past—trips to the mountains, nights dancing in places my mother had never mentioned. She laughed more than I’d ever heard. Her eyes were bright.
But every time he touched her hand, every time he said “we” like the future was already written, I felt the echo of every man I’d spent my career warning women about. Not violent. Not cruel. Just certain. Certain she belonged to him now that she’d come back.
When we finally stood to leave, Daniel kissed her again—soft, lingering, right there in the lobby. She let him.
I walked her to the elevator.
“You’re sure about this?” I asked quietly.
She looked at me—really looked. “No. But I’m tired of being sure of the wrong things.”
The doors closed.
I stood there until the indicator light blinked off, then turned and walked out into the humid afternoon.
My phone buzzed the second I hit the sidewalk.
Harper.
Where are you? We need to talk.
I met her at our usual spot—a small café on King Street with outdoor tables shaded by palmettos. She was already there, arms crossed, foot tapping. Luca sat beside her, calm as ever, but even he looked concerned.
She didn’t waste time.
