Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Kate
Cam left for off-season practice an hour ago. After five hugs and two goodbyes, my mom pulled out of the driveway with Evie. Now I have an hour of quiet before I need to leave for the library.
I wander through the living room, picking up a sock Evie abandoned on the couch and smoothing out the blanket she kicked off in her rush to pack her backpack.
My coffee has gone lukewarm on the counter, a half-eaten pile of pancakes beside it, breakfast surrendered halfway through because my brain never lets me focus on one thing at a time.
There are bills on the table, a grocery list on the fridge, but they can wait until this evening.
I’m heading toward my bedroom to finish getting ready for the library when a sharp knock jolts through the front door.
Three forceful taps, too insistent to be a neighbor, too early for a delivery, too loud to be anyone stopping by casually.
Something cold slides across the back of my neck.
I tell myself I’m overreacting, that it could be anybody—but the knock comes again, harder this time, like whoever stands on the other side knows I’m stalling.
I inhale once, and force my feet to move toward the door even as every instinct whispers don’t.
The second I open it, my stomach drops. Daniel looks exactly the same—crisp shirt, expensive watch, hair perfectly styled—as if the last five years have been effortless for him. His expression doesn’t soften when he sees me. If anything, he looks mildly inconvenienced.
“Kate,” he says, as if we spoke yesterday instead of him disappearing before our daughter was even born.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like, but I don’t clear my throat. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
“I’m looking for my daughter.” His tone is clipped, impatient. “Is she here?”
I grip the edge of the door to keep myself steady. “Evie’s with my mom today.”
“So she isn’t here.” The way he says it makes my skin prickle.
“That’s what I just said,” I reply, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.
He hears it. Daniel always did know how to find the weak spots and press until something cracked. He shifts his posture, sliding his hands into his pockets in that casual, superior way that once made me apologize before realizing I had nothing to be sorry for.
“I was hoping to see her.”
“You didn’t call. I didn’t have any communication from my lawyer,” I say, nails digging into my palm. “You don’t get to just show up.”
“I’m her father,” he replies coolly. “I have every right to see her.”
Anger rises sharp and fast, tangled with something like fear. “You have the right to see her during designated times, and this isn’t one of them. And where do you get off saying you have every right? You were the one who walked away,” I remind him. “Remember? You’re the one who left.”
He sighs, irritated. “We’re not doing this.”
“We’ve actually never done this,” I fire back. “You avoided every real conversation all those years ago and then disappeared. You don’t get to just show up and rewrite the story now.”
His eyes harden. “Watch your tone, Kate.”
My heart jumps, traitorously, at the familiar reprimand. It’s the same tone he used whenever I dared to question him. The same tone that taught me how to shrink. The same tone I swore I’d never allow to have power over me again.
I swallow down the instinct to apologize. “Why are you here?”
He exhales like I’m being dramatic. “My lawyer instructed me to stay involved prior to the hearing. Appear interested. Be present.”
Appear interested. Not be a father, just look like one.
“So all it took was a lawyer to suggest that you be involved? You’re unbelievable,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “You’re blowing this out of proportion. I might have needed time to adjust to the thought of being a father, but I’m ready now. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”
“You’re ready now? It took you five years to be ready?” I blink at him, baffled. “And yes, this is difficult. You filed for custody, Daniel. You want to take her away half the time. And you expect me to be…what? Calm?”
He rolls his eyes. “Plenty of parents share custody.”
“She doesn’t know you.” My voice cracks against my will. “She doesn’t know your voice or your laugh or your wife. She doesn’t know anything about you because you chose that.”
He stares at me, and something cruel curls at the edge of his mouth. “She’ll know Elizabeth and I soon enough.”
My breath stutters. “You didn’t want her,” I say quietly. “You told me to handle it. You said you weren’t ready. So I handled it.”
He laughs—a short, humorless sound that makes the rage under my skin burn hotter. “How noble.”
I stare at him, stunned. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m simply trying to see my daughter,” he snaps, motioning toward the house. “So again—she’s not here?”
“No.”
“And when will she be back?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie, and I hate how easily it comes, but instinct kicks in. Protect Evie first. Figure out the rest later.
His gaze sweeps over me, over the house, over the stack of mail, the mismatched shoes by the mat—like he’s taking inventory of every flaw.
“You look tired,” he comments. “Overworked.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He smirks, victory glinting in his eyes. “You always were stubborn.”
“And you were always condescending,” I mutter, though my voice trembles just enough for him to notice.
He watches me with a calmness that feels dangerous. “The court may agree with me,” he says. “About all of this.”
Ice threads through my veins. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re overwhelmed. You’re balancing too much.” He gestures around us. “It shows.”
Shame hits me hard—even though I know better. Even though I’ve kept this house running, kept Evie happy and thriving, kept every piece of our life stitched together with my bare hands. But Daniel always knew how to say the one thing that would cut deepest.
“You have no right to judge me,” I whisper.
He lifts a shoulder. “You’re right, the judge will take care of that.”
Panic surges through me, sharp and ugly, tightening my chest until it hurts. He sees it. He likes it.
“You should welcome the help,” he says. “Maybe things would be easier for you.”
The old me would have believed that. The old me would have begged. The old me would have apologized until he was satisfied.
But I’m not her anymore.
Still—his words land right where he aimed them.
“I think you should go,” I say, voice soft but steady.
He nods, as if he’s won something. “I’ll be back.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter.
He steps off the porch, walks halfway down the path, then glances over his shoulder. “Tell Evie I stopped by.”
“No.” The word comes out before I can think. “If you want her to know, you can earn that yourself. Figure it out.”
His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t reply. He just turns and walks to his car, leaving me standing in the doorway with my heart racing too fast and my hands trembling too hard.
When he’s gone, I shut the door and press my back against it, inhaling shakily. The house is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel peaceful anymore. It feels invaded and fractured. Like the past I outgrew just broke back into my home and reminded me how easily it can still find me.
I slide down until I’m sitting on the entryway rug, knees pulled up, hands threaded in my hair. My heartbeat won’t settle; my skin feels wrong, too tight. Every old habit scratches at the back of my mind—apologize, minimize, pretend it wasn’t that bad. Make yourself small until the storm passes.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore.
Still, my breath comes uneven. I hear Daniel’s tone echoing in my chest, a condescending certainty that he knows better. That he always has. And for a moment, fear flickers—not of him, but of who I used to be around him.
I close my eyes and let the feeling move through me instead of swallowing me.
My gaze drifts toward the living room, where Cam’s sweatshirt is draped over the back of the couch—left behind one night when he carried a sleeping Evie in from the car. It’s just a hoodie, soft from wear, sleeves stretched at the cuffs. It shouldn’t hold meaning, but it does.
I stand and walk to the couch, my fingers reaching for it. I flop down and pull it onto my lap, smoothing the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of him that clings to the cotton—peppermint gum, cedar, and just him. It settles me almost instantly.
I want him here. Not because I’m falling apart. Not because I need rescuing. But because he’s the person I trust to steady the parts of me that still shake.
The person I want to be here.
A tremor rises in my chest, and I wait for the usual instinct to shove it down but it doesn’t come. Instead, a different voice whispers beneath it.
Call him.
My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. I stare at it for a long moment, my pulse beating too loudly, as if this decision is bigger than just a phone call. Maybe it is, because all I want right now is him. I want his voice, his calm, his presence, his arms around me.
I reach for the phone.
My hand shakes—just once, just enough to remind me that this is new. That choosing someone is harder than pushing them away. That vulnerability isn’t a failing; it’s a choice.
I tap his name. The call rings once. Twice.
By the third ring, my breath steadies. When he answers, his voice warm and deep, the knot in my chest loosens.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Can you come over?”