She was changing when I walked into the room. I didn’t say anything. I lay down on the bed, keeping my eyes averted, forcing my focus anywhere but her.
I waited for her to join me, certain she would lie down beside me. She didn’t. Instead, she walked back out of the room.
At first, I let it go. I told myself she just needed space. But after a while, the quiet became unbearable. I got up and went looking for her.
I checked the guest room downstairs first, but she wasn’t there.
When I headed back upstairs and walked down the hall to Haille’s room, I found Elena curled up on the couch near the crib, watching our daughter sleep.
Her body was still, her breaths measured. But I could tell she was crying—silent and restrained—the kind meant not to wake a sleeping child.
In that moment, regret hit me hard and immediately.
I knew I had crossed a line.
CHAPTER 24
Elena
I woke with a dull ache threaded through my neck and shoulders, the kind that came from sleeping folded into myself for too many hours. The couch creaked softly as I shifted, uncurling my legs, the room spinning just enough to make me pause. I sat there for a moment, pressing my fingers lightly to my forehead, breathing through the faint dizziness until it passed.
When I stood and leaned over the crib, Haille was still asleep. Her small chest rose and fell in a calm, steady rhythm, a few strands of hair brushing her cheeks, one hand loosely curled near her face. I lingered there, watching her, grounding myself in the quiet certainty of her breathing.
Then I walked to the door and opened it slowly, carefully, making sure the hinges didn’t whisper, the latch didn’t click. I paused to take a deep breath before moving down the hallway. I didn’t know why I walked so cautiously, as if I were bracing myself for something I already knew was waiting.
The door to our bedroom was closed, and I stopped right in front of it. I reached for the handle and turned it slowly, careful not to make a sound. But when I opened the door, I found our bedroom empty. The bed had been made—not neatly, not perfectly—but in Adrian’s familiar way. The blanket was smoothed just enough. The pillows stacked unevenly. An attempt at order, never quite complete.
I stood there for a long moment, one hand resting against the doorframe, staring at the space he no longer occupied.
He was gone.
I didn’t call out his name. I didn’t look for his phone, his watch, or his jacket. I didn’t need proof. His absence was loud enough on its own.
I stepped inside and went straight to the bathroom, showering quickly, letting the water run over my shoulders and down my neck, hoping it would loosen the weight pressing against my chest.
It didn’t.
When I stepped out, I dried off, got dressed, and tied my hair back. Every movement came easily—practiced and detached—as if my body knew what to do even when my heart refused to participate.
Downstairs, I made myself a cup of coffee and stood at the counter, taking slow sips until the bitterness grounded me enough to keep moving.
Then I went back upstairs.
When I entered Haille’s room, she was already awake, sitting up in her crib, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Mommy,” she said softly.
I lifted her into my arms, pressed a kiss to her temple, and breathed her in. She was warm, real, and present. That was enough.
I dressed her, packed her bag, and fixed her breakfast, moving through the kitchen and living room without once looking for signs of Adrian.
I didn’t need confirmation. I knew he had already left the house. Whatever he needed to figure out, he could do it without pulling me into it.
—?—
The driveto daycare passed in silence. The radio stayed off. Haille hummed to herself in the back seat, swinging her feet, unaware of the shift happening quietly around her.
At the daycare entrance, she waved at me before running inside, her little backpack bouncing against her back.
