And then I let it go.
“For once,” I whisper, surprised by my own certainty, “the future feels steady.”
Laiken leans down and presses a kiss to my temple. “That’s because it is.”
I close my eyes and breathe him in. There’s no more waiting for the bottom to drop out.
That chapter is finished.
And the next one—ours—is only just beginning.
46
Laiken
The penthouse feels different now. It’s not necessarily quieter.
How could it be with a boisterous four-year-old tearing through the space like her ass is on fire?
Instead, it feels fuller. Like something has finally settled into place instead of continuing to hover just out of reach. The sounds overlap, one detail folding into the next. There’s the soft whir of the heating vents. Elody’s bare feet padding down the hallway. Kia’s steady voice reminding her to brush her teeth and put on pajamas. About how tomorrow is a school day even though everything feels slightly off-balance.
It’s more in the way all the noises fit together. It’s domestic and lived in. A rhythm that hasn’t existed here in a long time.
Maybe not ever.
I lean back against the kitchen counter and watch them without announcing myself, content to remain an observer instead of being in the center of the fray. Elody hops onto the couch and tucks her legs beneath her, dragging her pink blanket behind her like a tail. It tangles around her ankles, half forgotten.
Kia follows at an unhurried pace, kneeling in front of her to tug the sleeves of Elody’s pajama top down, smoothing the fabric with an ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. There’s no awkwardness in the motion, just instinct.
“You forgot Bunny,” Elody says matter-of-factly.
Kia blinks. “I did?”
Elody nods. “Penny doesn’t like being without him.”
“Well,” Kia says, already pushing to her feet, “I guess we should fix that.”
She doesn’t look at me, pause, or wait for permission.
It’s a small thing.
Smaller than anything a judge will ever care about. Smaller than paperwork or custody schedules or courtrooms filled with people deciding what they think is best for my daughter. But it reinforces the quiet certainty deep inside me. The one I sensed from the very beginning, even when I was afraid to say it out loud.
Where Kia is concerned, my instincts weren’t wrong.
For the past twelve months, it’s been Elody and me. Our routines became efficient because they had to be. Lunches were packed the same way every day. Baths were taken at the same time every night. Stories were read in the same order without deviation. It was control disguised as consistency. Protection masked as distance.
It worked because it had to.
Now there’s room for softness and variation, and I don’t know what to do with that.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m terrified of what tomorrow will bring.
Kia returns from the hallway with the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm, one ear flopping forward as she beelines toward the couch.
Elody’s whole face lights up. “You’re the best mommy,” she says without awareness of the weight behind that statement.
Kia freezes for half a beat.
