“Yeah,” Elena answered. She didn’t comment on the fact that I wasn’t.
“I stopped,” I said anyway.
She looked at me again, her expression unreadable but not disapproving. “Are you okay with that?”
“I think so,” I answered. “For now.”
That was the truth. Therapy had helped me see the damage. It hadn’t helped me undo it. And somewhere along the way, I realized my work now wasn’t insight. It was restraint.
“I’m really glad you found something that helps,” I added quietly. “You deserve that.”
Her gaze softened, just slightly. “Me too,” she said calmly. “I’m learning to see things differently. In healthier ways.”
I swallowed. “That makes sense,” I said.
Haille came running back then, sandals on the wrong feet, hat crooked. “Ready!” she announced proudly.
I laughed, adjusting her hat. “You sure?”
“Yes!”
“Wait!” Elena headed into the kitchen, grabbed something, then came back and pressed a small bag into my hand. “Snacks. And wipes.”
“Thanks,” I said.
As I turned to leave, I hesitated—just a second. “Elena,” I said quietly.
She looked at me.
“I hope... one day,” I continued carefully, “you can see me without it hurting.” The words weren’t a plea. They were a hope—offered, not demanded.
She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, honestly, “Some days, I already can.”
My chest tightened.
“Some days,” she added gently, “I still can’t.”
I nodded. “That’s fair.”
She walked us to the car, watching quietly as I buckled Haille into her seat before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Be good,” she said softly.
“I always good,” Haille replied.
Elena straightened and met my eyes one last time. “Have fun,” she said.
“We will,” I answered.
As I drove away, Haille kicked her feet and hummed off-key in the back seat. Somewhere in the middle of it, I felt it. Hope didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… patient. Like something that could wait.
CHAPTER 35
Elena
Haille was the only thread connecting me to Adrian for the rest of my life. Even after we separated—after the divorce papers were signed and the last pieces of us were boxed into separate lives—we had still made a promise to each other. Whatever happened between us, Haille would come first. Always.
This Saturday, we were going to attend her daycare’s Family Day together. On paper, it sounded simple. Almost wholesome in an ordinary way. An event meant for children and their parents. There would be small games, picnic blankets scattered across the grass, teachers with their practiced smiles. There would be snacks laid out on folding tables. Parents laughing a little too loudly, acting as if they weren’t exhausted, holding paper cups of coffee that would go cold long before they ever finished them. But there was nothing ordinary about it when the family you belonged to no longer existed.
Ever since I’d read the daycare email—Family Day Picnic: Parents Welcome—something in my chest had been tightening in slow, careful increments. Events like this had a way of pulling people back into their old shapes, a way of reminding the body what it used to be, returning you to a form the world still recognized, even when your life no longer fit inside it.
