Her face fell immediately. “But... swim?” she asked softly. “With Daddy?”
I took a steady breath. “Not this time, bug.”
Her lip trembled, disappointment hitting fast and honest.
“But Nana and Papa will be there,” I added quickly. “And Papa’s really good at swimming.”
Her eyes lit up again. “Swim with Papa?”
“Very,” I nodded. “He’s just as good as Daddy.”
That did it.
“Yay!” she laughed, already distracted by the idea, her excitement bouncing back as easily as it had fallen.
Elena watched the exchange quietly, her expression unreadable.
I finished my meal without tasting much of it, listening to Haille hum to herself.
The house filled with the small, ordinary sounds of dinner. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t broken. Still, it didn’t feel like mine.
After dinner, Elena cleared the table while I helped Haille brush her teeth and get into her pajamas. She yawned halfway through a story and fell asleep before I finished the last page.
I stood by her crib for a while, watching her breathe. After making sure she was asleep, I turned off the light and walked out.
Downstairs, Elena was wiping the counter, focused, as if the small task required all her attention.
I wanted to touch her. The urge came suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, to pull her into my arms, to tell her I didn’t know how to fix this but I would learn, to ask her what she needed, to beg if that’s what it took.
Instead, I stayed where I was. This wasn’t my moment anymore. Everything that came next belonged to her.
“Goodnight,” I said quietly.
She looked up. Met my eyes for just a second. “Goodnight, Adrian.”
I went back to the guest room and closed the door. The house settled into silence again, not broken, not healed, just waiting.
CHAPTER 28
Adrian
The house was too quiet.
There were no small footsteps running down the hallway. No sound of Haille’s laughter echoing through the house even before the door fully closed. No Elena in the kitchen, no half-finished glass left on the table, no light jacket draped over the back of a chair.
Just empty space.
I came home later than usual. Not because work truly demanded it, but because I didn’t know what to do in a house that no longer felt like home. At the office, at least there were lights on, computer screens, the hum of the air conditioner, and a legitimate excuse not to think about anything.
The first day, I stayed until nearly midnight.
On the second day, my mother called. “Adrian, have you had dinner?” she asked. “If not, come by.”
I agreed without thinking.
The drive to my mother’s house felt short. Roads I’d known since my teenage years now felt unfamiliar, as if I were driving on autopilot. When I arrived, the smell of food greeted me immediately, warm, familiar, and somehow painful.
We ate at the dining table like we always did.
