I inhaled once, exhaled, and opened the door.
And there they were.
Eleanor, holding a bag of something, probably a “sorry we’re arriving with chaos” offering, knowing her. Hair tucked behind her ear on one side, blue streaks catching the morning light. She looked tired, but happier than last night, like some of the hurt had settled into something steadier.
Next to her stood Ava, gripping the strap of her backpack, her newly evened-out blue hair glowing like a crown. She looked quietly proud.
It hit me so hard I forgot how to breathe for a second.
“Oh,” I said, which was not at all the smooth greeting I’d rehearsed in my head. “Wow. You two look—uh—amazing.”
Eleanor flushed a little. “We tried to get the dye even.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, too fast. “Really perfect.”
Ava nodded solemnly, as if validating my answer.
I stepped aside quickly. “Come in. Leo’s very excited. Possibly too excited.”
“He usually is,” Eleanor murmured as she stepped past me, and oh God, the smell of her shampoo, the warmth radiatingoff her, the streaks of blue brushing her cheek, my brain short-circuited just a little.
Ava walked in behind her, immediately scanning the room like she was cataloging details. The tutu-clad blur of Leo came skidding out of the kitchen.
“Ava! You look like a magical warrior!”
Ava considered this. “Thank you.”
Leo turned to Eleanor. “Did you do it too?!” His eyes widened when he saw her streaks. “YOU MATCH!”
Eleanor laughed, this soft sound that hit me somewhere low in my chest. “We do.”
I took the bag from her hand. “What’s this?”
“Donuts,” she said. “Insurance. Just in case brunch goes sideways.”
“With these two?” I nodded at the kids, who were now discussing the structural integrity of a cereal-box castle. “It definitely will. But in a cute way.”
Her smile reached her eyes. A small, fragile, perfect thing.
Something that felt right.
The kids had disappeared the moment Eleanor sat down, Ava trailing behind Leo like a small, blue-haired shadow. Their voices drifted faintly from his room, already deep in imaginative world-building. Probably involving tentacles. Or magical squid queens. Or both.
Which left the kitchen quiet.
I plated the last of the eggs and set the spatula down harder than I meant to. I wasn’t sure what to say, whether to ask, whether she wanted me to ask. Last night, she’d sounded wrecked on the phone. And this morning, she looked steadier, but still frayed around the edges.
I wiped my palms on a dish towel and finally just sat across from her.
“You okay?” I asked gently. “After everything yesterday?”
She let out a long, full-body sigh, the kind that sounded like it came from the very bottom of her lungs.
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m upright. That’s the bar today.”
I nodded. I understood that bar. I lived at that bar for years after my own marriage fell apart.
“I thought about you all night,” I admitted before I could second-guess it. “Worried, mostly. I just . . . I wish I could help more.”
