Then the teacher stepped forward again, clapping her hands. “Parents, please line up for the family photo!”
Parents began lining up. Couples slid arms around each other automatically. Hands on waists, fingers laced together. Children placed perfectly in the middle like proof of love. I stood frozen for half a second too long, my feet refusing the idea of stepping into that line.
Adrian noticed. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Didn’t say my name.
Instead, he crouched slightly toward Haille, his voice gentle. “Bug. Do you want to take a picture with Mommy and Daddy?”
“Yes!” Haille practically jumped.
Then she looked up at me with eyes so wide and hopeful it felt like my heart physically shifted. So I forced a smile, and I stepped forward.
Haille stood in the middle, gripping my hand and Adrian’s at the same time—like she was trying to pull the world back into the shape she remembered. Like she believed she could hold us together with her small fingers.
“Say cheese!”
“CHEEEESE!” Haille screamed with absolute conviction.
Click.
And for the smallest fraction of a second, my mind betrayed me. I imagined what this photo would have looked like if we were still married. Not in a desperate way. Not in a ‘take me back’kind of way. Just in the quiet, ruthless way the mind works when it’s grieving something it can’t fix.
If there hadn’t been betrayal. If there hadn’t been a slow wound that rotted quietly for years, poisoning everything it touched. If there had only been us.
The thought hit too sharply—a clean blade.
I sucked in a breath and nearly lost it.
After the picture was done, Haille was already tugging Adrian toward the sensory booth, ready to play with kinetic sand. I stayed where I was for a moment, staring at the empty space where, seconds ago, we had looked like a family again.
Only to remember—we weren’t. Not anymore.
And that reality didn’t cut like a fresh wound. It lingered like an echo. A quiet reminder of the life that might have been ours, if love had been enough to keep it safe.
CHAPTER 36
Elena
Dr. Bonnie’s office carried a faint scent of chamomile and something clean, like warm linen drying in sunlight. It was the kind of smell that made people think of rest—even when their bodies had long forgotten how to believe they deserved it.
The curtains were drawn halfway to soften the late-afternoon glare, and the room held the same quiet neutrality it always did—no loud ticking clocks, no harsh fluorescent lights. Just space. Space that had been made for honesty.
I sat on the sofa with my legs crossed at the ankles. My bag rested beside my feet, untouched. My phone was turned off. I’d learned quickly that if I let even a single notification through, my mind would seize it gladly, turning it into an excuse to run.
Dr. Bonnie sat across from me, unhurried, not steering me toward the core as if emotions were just another schedule to manage.
“How was Family Day?” she asked gently.
The question sounded small, harmless, almost casual—like she was asking about grocery shopping. But my chest tightened anyway. My gaze dropped to the soft carpet beneath my feet, its pattern blurring slightly as my focus slipped.
“It...” I started, then paused. “It was good for Haille.”
Dr. Bonnie nodded once. “And for you?”
That was her. She always brought the focus back to me, as if it was a responsibility I couldn’t keep dodging.
“It was...” I started again, but my voice faltered, the sentence collapsing before it could fully take shape.
Dr. Bonnie didn’t interrupt. She only tilted her head slightly, waiting like she had all the time in the world.
