Twenty - One
Harper
The kitchen looked like it had lost a fight with a baby shop.
There were bottles on the bench, bottles in the sink and, somehow, one sitting on top of the microwave. I wasn't entirely sure how it had gotten there, but at three months postpartum I'd accepted that some mysteries weren't worth solving.
Grace's bouncer sat in the middle of the floor where it had become a permanent fixture. I'd tried moving it back into the lounge room yesterday. Grace had lodged an official complaint. By screaming. So now it lived beside the kitchen island so she could observe breakfast like a tiny executive.
The drying rack held enough bottle brushes to open a small cleaning supply store.
One of them looked suspiciously furry. I decided not to investigate.
Some battles were for Future Harper. The kitchen table had disappeared beneath Leo's latest dinosaur expedition.
Plastic velociraptors stood guard around a crayon volcano while a very squashed Triceratops was trapped beneath my cold coffee.
It seemed symbolic somehow. My coffee had been hot once.
I remembered because I'd made it in between nappies and yet another bottle.
Drinking it while it was still hot had proven wildly optimistic.
Grace was sleeping now, her tiny mouth hanging open, arms flung above her head as though she'd been dramatically overcome by the effort of existing.
Every now and then she made a little squeaky sigh that sounded like a chew toy with low self-esteem.
I smiled despite myself. Three months ago, every silence made me nervous.
Now I remembered newborn silence wasn't peace.
It was simply intermission. I leaned against the bench and took another sip of cold coffee.
God, that was awful. I drank it anyway. Somewhere over the past year I'd stopped trying to make life perfect and started settling for "good enough. "
The washing didn't always get folded. The dishes occasionally stayed in the sink overnight. Leo sometimes wore dinosaur pyjama pants with entirely unrelated dinosaur T-shirts because I no longer possessed the emotional energy to referee prehistoric fashion.
Oddly enough… The world hadn't ended. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Right on cue.
Leo burst into the kitchen wearing just that outfit, his hair sticking up in every direction like he'd been electrocuted.
"Morning, Mum."
"Morning." He stopped beside Grace's bouncer and peered down at his sister.
"She's breathing."
"Excellent news."
"I checked."
"I can see that." He nodded solemnly.
"She's pretty good at being a baby."
"She's had a lot of practice." That earned me the eye roll only young boys seemed capable of producing. He climbed onto his chair.
"Can we have toast?"
"I was hoping you'd ask for soufflé." He frowned.
"What's a soufflé?"
"Something that's far too complicated to make in the morning."
Satisfied with that answer, he reached for a plastic T-Rex and began making it attack the butter dish. My phone buzzed against the counter. I glanced at the screen.
Ethan. The message was painfully familiar before I'd even opened it.
Can't make it this week. Things are insane at work. I'll try for next weekend, but I might have to raincheck. Sorry.
I read it twice. Waited for the familiar anger or disappointment to strike.
But nothing comes. No desperate urge to argue him into seeing his son.
Just… nothing.It surprises me more than if I'd cried.
Healing, apparently, isn't fireworks. Sometimes it's simply discovering a bruise no longer hurts when you press on it.
I typed back a quick No worries. Let me know.
Then I put my phone face down.
"Dad isn't coming?" Leo asked quietly. I looked up. He must have seen the message. Kids missed absolutely nothing.
"No, sweetheart." He considered that for about three seconds before shrugging.
"That's okay." My heart squeezed.
"Yeah?" He nodded.
"Alex said this Saturday we're finishing the sandpit." I smiled.
"He did, did he?"
"And after that we're planting strawberries." I laughed.
"I thought it was tomatoes." Leo looked horrified.
"No. You said tomatoes try to kill people."
"They only do that before they're ripe." He blinked.
"…Plants are confusing."
"They really are."
He accepted that without another question and wandered back to his dinosaurs, already narrating an elaborate battle involving lava and surprisingly cooperative herbivores. I watched him for a long moment.
There had been a time when Ethan cancelling a visit would've unravelled our entire weekend.
Leo would sit by the front window every time a car drove past, convinced the next one would be his dad's.
He'd ask every half hour what time Dad was coming.
Whether we'd heard from him. Whether maybe he'd gotten lost.
Then he'd spend the rest of the day trying very hard not to look disappointed.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped asking.
I couldn't even tell you exactly when it happened.
There wasn't a dramatic moment. No final broken promise that tipped the scales.
Just a hundred tiny disappointments that slowly taught my boy not to expect too much.
That thought still had the power to hollow something out inside me.
But then Alexander happened. He'd never tried to become anything to Leo beyond…
Alex. Just Alex. The man who always remembered that velociraptors were Leo's favourite.
The man who somehow had endless patience for explaining why herbivores couldn't breathe fire.
The man who built blanket forts that required engineering degrees to dismantle.
When Ethan's visits had become less frequent, Alexander hadn't criticised him.
Hadn't stepped in with speeches or promises.
He'd simply started creating traditions of his own. "Alex Days," Leo had christened them.
Somewhere between half-finished backyard projects, wildly overambitious ideas and the sort of conversations only an eight-year-old could steer towards dinosaurs, space and whether sharks had knees, they'd quietly become the highlight of Leo's week. There was never a grand plan.
Alexander would simply ask, "What should we tackle today?"
Leo would answer with complete confidence, usually involving tools, dirt or an unreasonable amount of imagination.
Somehow, by the end of the day, there'd be another story added to the collection.
It wasn't really about what they were doing.
It was about the fact that, every Saturday, someone showed up.
Every promise was kept. Every adventure happened.
Children notice consistency in ways adults often forgot they could.
Leo certainly had. He no longer counted down to visits that might not happen.
Instead, he'd spend Friday evenings excitedly wondering what Alex Day would involve this week.
I wasn't na?ve enough to think that erased the disappointment Ethan had left behind.
It didn't. But it had given Leo something just as important. Someone dependable to look forward to.
Last weekend, though… Last weekend had been my favourite. Alexander had picked Leo up early Saturday morning and announced they had "an important mission."
Three hours later they came home carrying an enormous bunch of sunflowers almost as tall as Leo.
"For you," Leo had declared proudly. "Because flowers make people happy."
Before I could recover from that, they'd shooed me out of the bathroom while they ran the taps. Leo had poured in approximately half the bottle of bubble bath. Alexander had quietly rescued the situation before my bathroom disappeared beneath a foam avalanche.
Then they'd ordered takeaway because, according to Leo, "Mums aren't allowed to cook on Alex Days.
" I hadn't realised I was crying until Alexander gentle wiped my eyes.
He'd just smiled, taken Grace from my arms, and asked if I wanted another ten minutes.
Not because he thought I couldn't cope. Because he'd noticed I was tired before I'd admitted it.
My phone buzzes just as Leo starts to eat his toast. The screen lights up.
Freya: Can I call you?
I stare at the message. It's ridiculous how four words can make my stomach knot.
It shouldn't feel this hard. She's my sister.
She always will be. The last proper conversation we'd had felt like it belonged to someone else.
After everything fell apart, I'd convinced myself Freya needed time.
Time to process. Time to be angry that I'd hidden an entire second life from her.
Time to come to terms with the fact she'd found out I was divorced, pregnant and seeing someone new because Luca decided it was time.
By the time I'd finally worked up the courage to call, all I could bring myself to say was that Grace had arrived.
She'd congratulated me. Told me she was beautiful.
Asked how I was. I'd answered with the emotional equivalent of a customer service survey and ended the call before either of us had to acknowledge the giant crater sitting between us.
I told myself I was waiting until Freya was ready.
Maybe… If I was completely honest… I was waiting until I was. Because if my little sister cried, I wasn't sure I'd survive it. I'd already spent months watching people look at me with pity. I couldn't bear seeing it in her eyes too. Now here she was. Offering me an opening.
Such a simple question. One she never should've had to ask. I swallow the lump in my throat and type a single word.
Yes.
Not even a minute later my phone rings. I answer before I can change my mind.
"…Hi." There's a tiny laugh on the other end.
"You answered fast."
"I absolutely did not."
"You did."
"…Maybe."
"I knew you would." I smile despite myself. God. I'd missed her.
"So…" she says softly.
"So." Neither of us seems particularly qualified to restart a relationship over the phone.
"How's Grace?" I glance towards the bassinet.
"Currently asleep."