Elena never truly fought me when my jealousy surfaced. She didn’t argue when I questioned her, didn’t explode when I crossed lines. She simply stepped back, one measured step at a time—quiet, controlled, almost polite.
And I, in my arrogance, believed I could close that distance with presence. With responsibility. With being a good father. A husband who wastrying.
But I had never asked the one question that mattered.
Was she happy with me?
Not safe. Not surviving.
Happy.
I opened my eyes and stared out at the nearly empty parking lot. Other cars were gone. People had gone home to lives that kept moving forward. And I was still sitting there, finally seeing what I should have understood long ago.
Elena didn’t stay because I made her happy. She stayed because I made her feel responsible. That realization hurt more than any fear I’d ever had of losing her. Because if that was true, then I hadn’t been saving our marriage all this time. I had been holding her inside it.
My grip on the steering wheel loosened.
Only then did I understand. I wasn’t afraid of Elena leaving. I was afraid that if I kept forcing her to stay, I would destroy whatever part of her was still intact.
And in that moment, with a clarity that left no room for denial, I knew I could not love her like that anymore.
CHAPTER 25
Elena
Another day passed.
I woke with the echo of last night still clinging to me—not as a dream, but as a sequence of sounds my body remembered before my mind fully caught up. The bedroom door opening. The careful way it creaked, like whoever stood on the other side didn’t want to be heard.
In the memory, I stayed still, my breathing slow and even, my face turned toward the wall, pretending sleep came easily when it didn’t. I remembered the closet door opening as he reached for clothes, the faint rustle of fabric breaking the quiet. I remembered the door closing again—softly, deliberately.
Adrian left our bedroom and didn’t come back.
I got out of bed and forced myself toward the bathroom, moving on instinct rather than intention. I went through the motions the way I always did. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I just let my body follow what was familiar.
When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I checked the baby monitor.
Haille was already awake.
And Adrian was there.
I froze, watching the screen. He had just stepped into her room, lifting her easily into his arms, murmuring something that made her giggle. He kissed her cheek, then her hair, holding her close in that familiar, practiced way. Something warm flickered in my chest—relief, affection—and at the same time it tightened painfully, like joy I wasn’t allowed to fully claim.
I set the monitor down before I could linger on it. Got dressed. Went downstairs.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee beans, but no coffee had been made. I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them slowly, toasted bread, sliced fruit, moving carefully and methodically, as if following the routine precisely might keep everything from unraveling. The quiet hummed around me, fragile but intact.
A few minutes later, footsteps padded down the stairs.
Haille came down holding Adrian’s hand.
“Mommy!”
I turned just in time to catch her as she let go of him and ran toward me, arms already outstretched.
“There you are,” I smiled, crouching slightly as she collided with me. I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”
She beamed. “I playyy with Daddy!”
