19.0 #2
"Then you leave," Tati said simply. "You've been doing it on your own this long, right? You're not gonna fall apart now. But you owe it to her—to both of you—to see what happens when you stop running."
Her words sat heavy. Because they were right.
Every excuse I'd clung to — every reason to keep the door closed — suddenly felt thin. Fear dressed up as logic.
Tati leaned closer, her voice softening again. "You don't have to trust him yet. You just have to give him the chance to try."
I nodded slowly, tears spilling anyway. "It's just... I don't even know where to start."
"Start with letting him show up," she said. "You can't control what he does with it, Ami. You can only control how you respond."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't heavy this time — just tired. Familiar.
"I hate that you're always right," I muttered.
Tati laughed quietly. "Yeah, but one day you're gonna thank me for it."
We stayed on the call a few minutes longer, talking about nothing, the way you do when you're both too drained to hang up. By the time I ended it, my face felt puffy, my chest a little lighter.
Let him show up.
It scared me more than anything.
But maybe for once, it was time to stop being scared.
By the time Saturday rolled around, I'd cleaned the house twice.
The kitchen smelled like pine-sol, and Alina's toys were stacked neatly against the wall, even though she'd probably have them scattered again in ten minutes.
Every few minutes, I caught myself staring at the clock. Then the window. Then the clock again.
I told myself I wasn't nervous. I lied every time.
When Alina asked why I kept pacing, I told her someone was coming to visit. She nodded, more interested in the super kitties playing on the TV than the tremor in my voice.
I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror—bare face, soft sweater, hair pulled back.
Approachable. Calm. Like I hadn't spent the entire night rehearsing every possible version of how this could go wrong.
At 1:55, a car slowed in front of the house. My breath hitched.
He was early.
Of course he was.
I saw him through the blinds—gray slacks, black jacket. His hair was neatly combed, though a few strands fell against his forehead like he hadn't noticed. The glasses—thin, black-rimmed—ones he used to only wear at night when he was tired, when it was just us. Seeing them now felt like a gut punch.
He stood there for a second, hands at his sides, a large pink gift bag clutched too tightly in one of them. He looked up at the house, his jaw tightening, his breath visible in the cold air.
I forced myself to open the door before he could knock.
"Hi," I said. My voice came out too soft.
"Hi."
He didn't smile. His tone was even, polite. Detached in a way that made my stomach twist.
There were faint shadows under his eyes, the kind you only get from not sleeping.
I'd spent nights memorizing that face, and now it looked like it had been carved out of marble.
His gaze flicked past me—toward the TV playing faintly inside—then back to my face.
"I, uh..." He lifted the bag slightly. "I brought her something. The lady at the store said pink is a safe color for a little girl. Now that I'm here I'm thinking I should've gotten something more neutral like yellow or something. I probably shouldn't have assumed she liked pink."
Something in me wanted to laugh, but it came out as a small breath. "You didn't have to—"
"I know." His interruption was gentle but firm. "I wanted to."
"Well she does like pink so don't worry."
He hesitated at the door, still holding the bag like a shield. "Can I come in?"
I stepped aside. "Yeah. Of course."
He moved quietly, his shoes clicking once on the tile before he slipped them off near the mat.
That small, familiar politeness hit harder than I expected. He'd always done that—always took his shoes off at my place. The muscle memory of it felt too intimate for the space between us now.
"Thanks," he murmured. His voice had lost the anger from the porch, but the warmth was gone too. That absence stung worse.
"She's in the living room," I said, leading the way.
Brooks followed slowly, his coat still on, posture too straight. I could tell he was trying to hold himself together. There was something mechanical about it—the way his shoulders squared, the way his steps measured. Like if he didn't control every movement, something inside him might give.
When we stepped into the living room, Alina was sitting cross-legged on the rug, crayons scattered around her, coloring a picture of a cat that looked more like a cloud.
She looked up, curious but unbothered. "Hi."
Brooks froze mid-step. I saw it—the breath that caught in his chest, the way his hand flexed around the bag handle like he needed something to hold onto. "Hi," he said quietly. "I'm Brooks."
He crouched down, set the gift bag on the rug beside her, and nodded toward it. "That's for you."
Alina's eyes went wide. "For me?"
He smiled faintly, the first real softness I'd seen on his face since the night on the porch. "Yeah. For you."
She pulled out the pink tissue paper in bursts, tiny hands working fast. The sound of the crinkle filled the quiet between us. Inside was a soft plush rabbit, a book, and a small box that she opened before I could stop her.
The bracelet inside gleamed under the light—thin gold with a delicate heart charm, the kind of thing that cost more than my rent.
"Brooks," I started, keeping my tone gentle, "it's beautiful, but—"
He shook his head slightly, not looking away from Alina. "Don't. It's okay."
I swallowed hard and said nothing.
Alina slipped it on her wrist and held it up proudly. "Look, Mommy."
"It's perfect," I said, forcing a smile. "Say thank you."
"Thank you, Brooks," she chirped.