Adrian caught her easily, lifting her into his arms as if that movement had been carved into him. “Hey, bug,” he murmured, kissing her cheek once, then again. “Excited?”
“Yes!” she yelled, then leaned toward his ear and whispered with dramatic seriousness, “Daddy, come. We draw.”
Adrian laughed. A real laugh. The kind that used to live in our house. “Alright,” he said, amused. “Lead the way.”
He glanced at me then—not with entitlement, not with the familiar arrogance of a husband, but with something quieter. Like a man who understood boundaries now.
“Let’s go,” he said, shifting her onto his hip.
“Wait…” I murmured, remembering something as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wristband. Without thinking, I took his free hand and slipped the band around his wrist.
“Come on, Daddyy,” Haille whined.
My fingers stilled against his skin. Only then did I realize what I was doing. Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it. I looked up and found him already watching me.
“Thanks, Elena,” he said quietly.
I let go of his hand without answering.
“Let’s go, bug.” He set Haille down, and she instantly grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the drawing station like she owned him.
They sat on tiny chairs, crayons scattered across the table, while I stood behind them. Haille chattered endlessly, narrating everything, critiquing Adrian’s drawing as if she were an art professor. Adrian took it all with shameless amusement, laughing openly whenever she declared his work “not good enough.”
I watched them in silence.
Because suddenly, my chest ached—not the sharp kind of pain I’d grown used to, but something quieter now, something that didn’t scream betrayal anymore.
It whispered what could’ve been. Because this—this—was what it should have looked like, the version of us the world would have called beautiful, the kind of image that could have lasted.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my gaze away before the feeling could settle too deep.
We moved to the performance area afterward. Parents gathered in front of a small stage. Children were lined in neat little rows. Haille stood in the front—small, serious, determined—like she was preparing for something far bigger than daycare choreography.
Adrian stood beside me. Not too close, but close enough that our arms brushed sometimes when the crowd shifted.
When Haille spotted us, she waved so wildly she almost hit the child next to her.
“Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy!” she yelled, far too loudly.
Some parents laughed.
I smiled, but the ache stayed.
I watched Adrian watching her, and my throat tightened. He lifted his phone, recording her dance, smiling like he was witnessing something sacred. His face softened with pride in a way that almost made me swallow hard.
When the performance ended, applause rose in waves. Haille ran toward us the moment the teacher dismissed them, her face glowing.
“Was I good?!” she asked, breathless, like the answer mattered more than anything.
“You were amazing,” I laughed. “So amazing.”
Adrian patted her head. “You did so good, baby. I’m proud of you.”
Haille grinned so hard her cheeks puffed. “I was the best! Did you see me? Did you see me??”
Adrian’s chuckle was soft, warm. “Of course I did. The whole time.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “You danced like a little superstar.”
The tenderness in his voice tightened my throat, sharp enough to make me look away.
