15. Jade
— ? —
Jade
The first morning is the hardest.
I wake to silence - then remember. Nova is here. In the next room. My daughter is finally here.
I tiptoe to her door and peek inside. She’s awake, sitting up in bed, hugging her stuffed rabbit, looking around the unfamiliar room with wide, scared eyes.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
She flinches. Pulls the rabbit closer. Doesn’t answer.
I try not to let it break me.
The first few days blur together in a haze of small failures and smaller hopes.
Nova barely eats. She won’t make eye contact.
Every night, she cries herself to sleep asking for “her room” and “Mommy Vivi,” and every night I stand outside her door, listening, wanting to go to her but terrified she’ll push me away.
I try everything I can think of. I’m gentle.
Patient. I give her space when she seems to need it.
I offer to read stories, to watch movies, to play games.
I make her favorite foods - I even swallowed my pride and called Donald to ask what she likes, which might have been the most painful phone call of my life.
Nothing works.
She looks at me like I’m a stranger. Because to her, I am.
Then one evening, Damian comes home with bags from the hardware store. Paint. Brushes. Purple everything.
“We promised her the purplest room in the world,” he says with a small smile. “Let’s deliver.”
Nova watches suspiciously from the doorway as we start painting. She doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t leave either. I catch her looking at the butterfly decals Damian bought - sparkly purple ones with glitter on the wings.
“Do you want to pick where they go?” I ask softly, not expecting an answer.
She hesitates. For a long moment, I think she’s going to ignore me like she has every other time I’ve tried to include her in something.
Then, slowly, she points to a spot above the bed.
“There?”
She nods.
“Perfect choice.”
I peel the sticker from its backing and hold it out to her. “Do you want to put it on?”
Her small hand reaches out. Takes it. She walks to the wall and presses the butterfly carefully into place, smoothing out the edges with her fingers. Then she steps back to look at it.
“It’s pretty,” she whispers.
“It is,” I agree, my heart aching with hope. “You have good taste.”
For a moment - just a moment - she almost smiles. I see it flicker across her face like sunlight through clouds. Then she remembers she’s supposed to be sad, supposed to be loyal to her other life, and the walls go back up.
But it’s something. It’s a crack in the armor she’s built around herself.
I’ll take it.
That night, after Nova goes to bed, I sit on the couch feeling completely wrung out. Exhausted in a way that goes deeper than physical tiredness. Damian brings me a glass of wine I don’t drink, just hold in my hands like it might anchor me to something.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, staring at the dark liquid. “I thought once I got her back, everything would be okay. That she’d feel it somehow - feel that I’m her mother, that I love her, that we belong together. But she looks at me like I’m a stranger. Like I’m someone to be afraid of.”
“Jade-”
“What if I can’t do this? What if I’m not what she needs? What if I got her back too late and the damage is already done?”
Damian takes the wine glass from my hands and sets it aside. Then he pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me like he can hold me together through sheer force of will.
“Listen to me,” he says firmly. “You are exactly what she needs. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve watched you fight for her for months.
Because I’ve seen the way you look at her - like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
Like you’d burn down cities to keep her safe.
” He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“That’s love, Jade. Real love. And kids feel that.
Even when they can’t understand it, even when they’re too scared or confused to accept it, they feel it. ”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. Keep trying and failing and watching her flinch away from me.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together.”
I kiss him. Not out of passion, but out of desperate need - need to feel connected to something, to feel something good after days of nothing but heartache.
He carries me to the bedroom.
It’s different this time. Slow. Reverent. He undresses me like I’m something precious, kissing every inch of skin he reveals, murmuring words I can barely hear but feel in my bones.
“You’re so strong,” he says against my throat. “So brave. You don’t even see it, do you?”
“Damian-”
“Let me show you.”
He worships me. Takes his time. Brings me to the edge over and over, until I’m trembling and desperate, before finally sliding inside me.
“I love you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “So much it terrifies me.”
“I love you too.”
We move together, eyes locked. This isn’t just sex. It’s a promise. It’s him telling me without words that he’s here, that he believes in me, that we’re going to survive this.
When I come, it’s with tears on my cheeks. He follows moments later, whispering my name like a prayer.
Afterward, he holds me close and strokes my hair, and I fall asleep feeling safe for the first time in days.
***
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when a scream tears through the house.
I bolt upright, heart pounding. Nova.
I’m out of bed and running before I’m fully awake. I burst into her room and find her sitting up in bed, sobbing, thrashing against invisible hands.
“No! Don’t hit me! Don’t-”
Nightmares. About Vivian. About the airfield.
I freeze in the doorway, paralyzed by uncertainty. What if she doesn’t want me? What if my presence makes it worse? What if she screams at me to go away and I have to leave her alone with her terror?
But Nova looks up through her tears. Sees me standing there. And reaches out her arms.
“Stay,” she whimpers. “Please stay.”
I cross the room without hesitation. Climb into the tiny bed beside her. Pull her small, shaking body into my arms.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here. You’re safe.”
“She was so scary,” Nova sobs against my chest. “Mommy Vivi was so scary. She was yelling and her face was mean and she hit me-”
“I know, sweetheart. I know. But she’s gone now. She can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” I hold her tighter, fierce and protective. “I’ll always protect you. Always. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”
Her sobs slowly quiet. Her breathing evens out. Her small fingers clutch my shirt as she drifts back to sleep, still holding on to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath her feet.
I don’t move. Don’t sleep. I just hold my daughter and watch the sunrise paint the purple walls gold through her curtains.
When Nova wakes up, she’s still in my arms. She blinks up at me, confused for a moment, then remembers.
“You stayed,” she says softly, almost surprised.
“I told you I would.”
“Mommy Vivi never stayed when I had bad dreams. She said I was being dramatic and I needed to go back to sleep.”
Something cracks open in my chest - rage at Vivian, grief for all the nights Nova spent alone and scared, desperate love for this small person who deserved so much better than what she got.
I keep my voice steady. “I’ll always stay. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.”
Nova is quiet for a moment, processing this. Then she sits up and looks around her purple room - at the butterfly sticker she placed on the wall, at the morning light streaming through the curtains.
At breakfast, she eats everything on her plate for the first time since she arrived. She doesn’t ask for Vivian.
“Jade?” she says quietly, pushing her empty plate away.
My heart skips. “Yes, baby?”
“Can we... can we paint more butterflies today?”
I smile, a real smile, the first one that hasn’t felt forced in days. “We can paint a whole garden of butterflies.”
She almost smiles back.
We spend the afternoon together, painting butterflies on her walls. Her small hand grips the brush while my hand steadies hers, guiding without controlling. We don’t talk much, but the silence is different now. Comfortable instead of tense.
When we’re done, she steps back and looks at what we’ve created, a cascade of colorful butterflies dancing up toward the ceiling.
“We made that,” she says quietly. “Together.”
And I think: This is the beginning. It’s slow. It’s hard. But it’s real.