That I could do this. That I had done this.
When dessert came—a crème brûlée I ordered ‘for Haille’ even though we both knew it was for me too—she clapped when the plate hit the table.
“Woaaahh!”
I laughed. “Okay, okay. Calm down.”
She leaned in like it was a sacred ceremony, eyes locked onto the glossy, caramelized top. I showed her how to eat it. Then, very seriously, she tapped the spoon against the sugar crust.
Crack.
Her face lit up instantly. “Ooooh!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed again. “That’s the best part,” I told her.
She scraped up a bite—custard and caramel together—and her eyes widened as if she’d just discovered heaven. “Mmmmmm,” she hummed dramatically, shoulders rising with the effort of howgoodit was.
I watched her, smiling softly.
—?—
By late afternoon, Haille was already half-asleep on the couch, her small body curled sideways with a blanket tucked under her chin, her hair still faintly smelling of strawberry shampoo. I was curled up in the living room with a book when the doorbell rang, and I paused, frowning slightly, because no one was supposed to come. Setting the book aside on the coffee table, I stood and made my way to the door.
A delivery man stood there holding a large bouquet wrapped in pale paper, along with a small box tucked neatly inside a branded bag. He smiled politely. “Elena White?”
“Yes.”
He handed them over. “Happy birthday.”
My fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet as I brought everything inside, the weight of it settling heavier than it should have. White roses. Peonies. Soft baby’s breath. Exactly my taste. Exactly the kind of thing Adrian always sent, even now. A note was tucked carefully between the flowers, and my chest tightened before I even opened it, because I already knew what it would say.
I unfolded it anyway.
Happy Birthday, Elena.
—Adrian
Nothing dramatic. Nothing manipulative. No apology written like a plea. Just the same quiet ritual he had always kept. The same tradition. The same care. And suddenly, my hands were shaking, because it hit me all at once how unchanged that part of him still was.
I turned to the box next, a signature red one, instantly familiar in a way that made my breath catch, soft and involuntary. I didn’t open it right away. I just stood there, staring at it like it might burn me, like it might pull me back into something that wasn’t mine anymore.
But curiosity won.
Slowly, I opened it.
A bracelet.
A rigid rose-gold bangle, sleek and cool against my palm, marked with those unmistakable screw motifs, four diamonds set into it like quiet punctuation—subtle, but impossible to ignore.
This was too much. Too intimate for an ex-husband. Too expensive to accept without it meaning something.
A year ago, two, maybe three, this would have destroyed me. Back then, receiving flowers from him would have felt like being handed a beautiful excuse to stay quiet about the ugly things he had done. Back then, gifts would have felt like guilt dressed up as romance.
But now…
Now it felt different. I wasn’t his wife anymore. He wasn’t allowed to make things right through gestures that implied ownership.
They were just... love.
