Chapter Fifty-Eight
Melissa
The spring air in Central Park carried the scent of blooming flowers and roasted hot dogs from a nearby vendor.
I sat on the bench, my hand resting on the swell of my belly, watching Danika chase pigeons with the kind of fearless joy only a four-year-old could possess.
Her laughter rang out across the grass, bright and pure, cutting through the ambient noise of the city like a bell.
I watched as Danika’s laughter echoed across the park, grounding me in the present even as Dante’s words tugged at memories I wasn’t ready to revisit.
“I’m just saying,” Dante continued, his voice patient but trying for lightness, “you have the credentials, the experience. You know there aren’t many people who get what those kids go through.
You could really make a difference—if you wanted.
” His attempt at nonchalance didn’t quite hide the hope in his eyes.
His words settled over me, heavy as a wool coat.
My fingers traced slow circles over my stomach, feeling the firm roundness that had become familiar over the past months.
Thirty-four weeks now. Eight months of carrying this life, this promise, this piece of Travis that would live on even though he couldn’t.
A pang of guilt flickered beneath my gratitude—was I really avoiding the future, or just afraid to face it?
The pregnancy had been surprisingly uncomplicated.
No morning sickness beyond the first trimester.
No complications. No scares. Just steady, relentless growth, a body doing what bodies were designed to do, creating life with an efficiency that felt almost miraculous given everything else that had fallen apart.
Still, every gentle kick reminded me that the future was coming, whether I was ready to meet it or not.
I was grateful for that. Grateful that at least this one thing had gone right, even as uncertainty curled in my chest.
“Are you even listening to me?” Dante asked, though his tone was more amused than annoyed, a crooked smile playing at his lips as if he was in on some private joke.
“Not really,” I admitted, the corners of my mouth lifting in apology. “Sorry.” The weight of my own thoughts made the words softer, almost reluctant.
He sighed, leaning back against the bench and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a therapist, you’re remarkably bad at taking advice.” There was a gentle tease in his words, but I caught the faint thread of concern running underneath.
“I’m on leave,” I reminded him, almost defensively, but I softened my words with a small, tired smile. “Technically, I don’t have to listen to anyone right now.” Part of me wished I could believe that as easily as I said it.
“Technically,” he agreed, letting the word linger, “you’re avoiding the subject.” His eyes searched mine, but he didn’t push further.
He wasn’t wrong. The truth was, I didn’t know how to let go of fear when the future felt so impossibly fragile.
Danika squealed as a particularly bold pigeon refused to flee, standing its ground and cocking its head at her with what looked like avian judgment. She stopped short, suddenly uncertain, then looked back at me with wide eyes.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I called out. “He’s just saying hello.”
She considered this, then carefully extended one small hand toward the bird. It hopped once, twice, then flew away in a flutter of gray wings. Danika’s face lit up with triumph, and she spun in a circle, arms outstretched like she’d just conquered the world.
My daughter.
The word still felt strange in my mind, even after all these months.
Even after the adoption papers had been finalized, after her room had been set up in the house Rowen had bought, after countless nights of reading bedtime stories and wiping away tears and learning the particular cadence of her needs.
Dante had made it happen. He walked into Sinclair’s office one afternoon and delivered an ultimatum that was as simple as it was effective: Make Melissa Danika’s legal guardian, or you’ll never see her again.
Sinclair had stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he picked up his phone and made a call.
Two weeks later, a courier arrived at my door with a thick envelope containing adoption papers, already signed by every necessary party, requiring only my signature to make it official.
I cried when I signed them. Not sad tears, but something else. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or the overwhelming weight of suddenly being responsible for another human being when I could barely keep myself together.
But I’d signed them.
And Danika had become mine.
“The practice could be small at first,” Dante was saying, pulling me back to the present. “Just a few clients. Maybe work with some of the families in the organization who need—”
“Dante.”
He stopped, looking at me with those dark eyes that saw too much.
“I know what you’re doing,” I said quietly.
“What am I doing?”
“Trying to give me purpose. Trying to keep me busy so I don’t fall apart.”
He didn’t deny it. “Is it working?”
I looked down at my belly, studying the way my hand curved protectively over it. “I don’t know yet.”
The truth was more complicated than that.
The truth was that I had found purpose, but it wasn’t the kind that could be neatly packaged into a career or a practice or a plan.
It was the kind that came from simply surviving each day.
From getting out of bed, even when the weight of grief made it feel impossible.
From eating, even when food tasted like ash.
From choosing life, over and over again, even when death seemed easier.
Travis would have been proud of that, I thought. Proud that I’d found the courage to keep going. Proud that I hadn’t let his sacrifice be for nothing.
I thought about him more often than I probably should. Thought about the way he’d looked at me that last night, his eyes full of love and fear and desperate hope. Thought about the promises he’d made, the future he’d imagined, the life we were supposed to build together.
He’d given up everything for me. For us. For this child growing inside me who would never know their father’s face, never hear his laugh, never feel the safety of his arms.
And somehow, impossibly, I’d made peace with that.
Not the kind of peace that meant I was okay with it.
Not the kind that meant I didn’t still wake up some nights reaching for him, expecting to find him there.
But the kind that meant I could accept it.
Could acknowledge that he’d made his choice, and that choice had been me, and that I owed it to him to live the life he’d died to give me.
Even if that life felt hollow sometimes. Even if it felt like I was going through the motions, playing a role, pretending to be whole when pieces of me were still scattered across that beach in North Carolina.
“Mama!” Danika’s voice cut through my thoughts. She was running toward me now, her blonde curls bouncing, her face flushed with exertion and joy. “Mama, did you see? Did you see the bird?”
“I saw, baby,” I said, opening my arms as she crashed into me with the full force of her small body. “You were very brave.”
She climbed onto the bench beside me, pressing herself against my side, one hand reaching out to pat my belly with the careful gentleness I’d taught her. “Is the baby awake?”
“I think so,” I said. “Want to feel?”
She nodded eagerly, and I guided her hand to the spot where I’d felt movement earlier. We waited, both of us holding our breath, until finally—there. A small flutter, barely perceptible, but enough to make Danika’s eyes go wide with wonder.
“I felt it!” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might scare the baby away. “I felt the baby move!”
“You did,” I confirmed, my throat tight with emotion I couldn’t quite name.
Dante watched us with an expression that was equal parts fond and sad.
He’d been there through all of it—the grief, the pregnancy, the adoption, the slow, painful process of learning to live again.
He had been patient and persistent and infuriatingly optimistic, refusing to let me disappear into the darkness even when that was all I wanted to do.
I owed him more than I could ever repay.
“So,” he said after a moment, his tone deliberately light. “About that practice…”
I laughed despite myself. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when it comes to family.”
The words settled between us, warm and genuine. Dante had become something like an older brother to me over these last few months, not by blood, but by choice. By showing up, caring for me. By refusing to let me face this alone.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “After the baby comes. After I figure out how to be a mother to two children instead of one. After—”
“After you stop waiting for him to come back.”
His words hit like a physical blow. I turned to stare at Dante, my breath catching in my chest. He met my gaze steadily, no apology in his expression. “You’re doing better, Mellie. You really are. But you’re still waiting. Still hoping. And I don’t know if that’s healthy or heartbreaking or both.”
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I’d moved on, that I’d accepted my new reality.
But I couldn’t.
Because he was right.
Even now, even after six months of silence, even after building this new life with Danika and preparing for the baby and learning to exist in a world without Travis—even after all of that, there was still a part of me that listened for footsteps that never came.
That looked up every time a door opened, hoping to see a face I knew I’d never see again.
Not Travis’ face.
Rowen’s.
God help me, I still thought about him. Still remembered the way he’d looked at me that night, his body saying everything his voice couldn’t. Still felt the ghost of his touch, the weight of his presence, the promise in his silence.