Chapter 22
Hope
Zac zooms past me the moment I open the front door, kicking his shoes aside and narrowly missing the pot plant by the entrance.
I send up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, begging for the patience to handle a child who has clearly been fuelled on nothing but sugar all afternoon—no thanks to my brother, and is now ricocheting through the house with boundless energy.
“No TV before shower,” I call after him, scooping up his discarded shoes and setting them neatly back on the shoe rack in the hallway.
A faint, disgruntled ‘Aww, man,’ follows as he disappears into his room to probably grab some clean clothes. Five minutes later, the shower turns on, and his enthusiastic, off-key singing floats throughout the house.
We’ve only just gotten home—Zac from a day with his uncle and cousins, and me from time spent with Kaden.
It still feels surreal that after more than a year of no contact, we ran into each other by pure coincidence at the farmer’s market.
Even stranger was discovering he lives only a suburb away, in an apartment I’d just been in, helping him find the perfect spots for his new plants.
I mean, how does something like that even happen?
Surprisingly, my day with him went far better than I expected.
I had braced myself for awkward silences or uncomfortable moments, yet, to my relief, I ended up genuinely enjoying myself.
I appreciated that he didn’t pry too much into my divorce with Adrian, in fact, we barely spoke about him besides the general ‘how is it going?’ questions.
The last thing I needed was to dwell on my ex, and even bringing him up would have soured my mood for the rest of the day.
I learned a little more about Kaden today, which helped settle some of my nerves and made him feel less unfamiliar.
He may still be a stranger in many ways, but my perception of him is starting to shift.
He doesn’t seem as broken as he did that day we met, and the sadness that once lingered in his eyes has softened.
He did mention he’s been working on some projects and has a therapist, so maybe, that’s helped him heal, in some small way.
Whatever he’s doing is clearly working. If only I could say the same.
I still haven’t found my way into therapy, even though I made sure Zac did.
Life just keeps crowding in—long work hours, single parenting, house repairs, endless chores—until there’s very little left for me.
Still, I’d choose this life over being trapped in a marriage built on lies and betrayal.
As I wait for Zac to finish up, I wander into the kitchen and pull a few takeaway menus from the top drawer, my gaze snagging on the drawer below it with a missing handle, an unwelcome reminder that I still need to call Mark, the carpenter, tomorrow while I’m at work.
I set the menus down on the countertop and spread them out for Zac.
If I’m going to break the sad news that his dad won’t be seeing him next weekend—again, I might as well do it over his favourite takeaway meal.
I’m not sure how he’ll take it, but however it lands, I’m determined to make our time together enough to soften the disappointment, and to remind him he is loved, wanted, and never alone.
Fifteen minutes later, he saunters into the kitchen already in his pyjamas, smelling of bubble gum soap. His hair is damp and unbrushed, waves sticking out in every direction, and the wild energy he had earlier from his sugar high is finally wearing off.
He climbs up onto one of the stools, rests his elbows on the edge of the counter, and leans forward, quietly inspecting the menus laid out in front of him.
“Are we ordering dinner tonight?” he asks.
“Yes we are, and lucky for you, it’s your turn to choose.”
“Oh, cool!”
He slides the menus towards him, taking his time as he weighs his options.
For a full minute, he flips between sushi and Vietnamese before finally settling on Mexican burritos.
It’s hard not to smile or laugh at his indecision—the Gemini in him, forever torn, only to settle on a choice that seems completely out of left field.
I tap our order through the food delivery app and pay, and we make our way to the living room, settling in front of the TV to wait for our food.
“Do you have a movie in mind that you’d like to watch tonight?”
“Um... maybe The Sea Beast?”
“Good choice, sonny boy.”
I scroll through the movie selection, my eyes landing on it almost immediately. I click on the title, and the movie appears on the screen in seconds, but I don’t press start just yet.
“Hey, buddy...can we talk for a minute? It’s about next weekend.”
“What about it?”
“I know you were meant to spend time with Dad, but unfortunately, he won’t be able to come down to visit.”
“Again? Why?”
“He has something he can’t change right now, and that’s all there is to it.”
He sighs deeply, nodding as though he already sees the pattern forming, one where his father continues to back out of their arranged plans. But he says nothing.
“I know it’s disappointing, and it’s okay to feel sad or annoyed about it. I’d feel that way too. But just know this isn’t because of anything you did.”
“So, he’s not mad at me?”
“Of course not. Why would he be mad at you? He loves you more than anything.”
“It’s just that last time, when he took me to the arcade, he was on his phone a lot. And every time I asked him to watch me shoot the ball into the hoop, he’d yell, ‘Not now, Zac.’”
I nod calmly, but my jaw is clenching so tightly it feels like it might crack. Inside, I feel a fierce, protective anger surging hot and fast, because my ex-husband hasn’t just proven himself unreliable, he’s been careless and dismissive of our son. And that? That is just not okay with me.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’ll talk to him, okay.”
“Will he be mad that I told you?”
“No. He might be a little upset that he made you feel that way, but that’s on him, not you. You did the right thing by telling me.”
I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him, and he leans in. I love that he still lets his mother hold him, even as he grows more independent each year.
“You and I are still going to have a really good weekend together,” I promise him. “We can go to your favourite restaurant for zucchini flowers, and maybe we’ll head back to the arcade so you can show me those impressive basketball skills of yours.”
His expression immediately lights up. “Really?”
“Yes! If you want, we can even play together, and see who can score the most?”
“Okay! But just so you know, Mum, I’m a very, very good ball shooter.”
“Let’s see about that!”
Just then, the doorbell rings. I quickly get up and go to the door to grab our food.
Once I’m back in the room, I hand Zac his burrito and sink back in the couch with mine.
“Ready?” I ask, my thumb hovering just over the play button.
“Ready,” he replies, already with a mouthful of rice, chicken and beans.
I press play, and the movie begins.
For the next two hours, we settle into the couch, quietly shovelling bites of food between scenes.
Every so often, I glance over at Zac, trying to read whether he’s still upset about his dad.
But he’s completely engrossed in the movie, occasionally giggling at the funny parts.
He’s so caught up in the story that it seems as if our earlier conversation has already slipped from his mind.
Still, I can’t shake the bitter fury that lingers after what Zac admitted to me. While my son has been craving meaningful time with his dad, Adrian has been squandering it, distracted by other women on his phone instead of being fully present.
I don’t know when he became such a negligent father, especially when he was once so caring and attentive during our marriage. But I do know this: if he keeps failing our son, I won’t hesitate to step in and make sure it stops.
It’s a quarter past ten, and I’m lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, unable to sleep.
Images of Adrian brushing off Zac’s attempts to get his attention gnaw at my mind, festering like a slow-burning sickness.
In eight hours, I’ll be getting up for work, and I just know that sleep will be scarce.
My body aches for rest, but my mind refuses to quiet, and I blame Adrian for that.
I know exactly what he’s doing—trying to make me feel guilty for ending our life together.
He’s twisting his time with Zac into a weapon, a way to punish me and remind me of how my decision can hurt and affect our son.
And fine, I’ll admit it, that part gnaws at me.
But as for everything else? His selfishness, his carelessness, his complete disregard for what Zac actually needs? That’s on him, not me.
I open my Kindle app on my phone and start reading my book, hoping it will lull me to sleep. Fifteen minutes pass and two chapters later, I still haven’t absorbed a single word, nor do I feel any more tired than before.
Realising it’s probably useless at this point, I close the app and scroll through Facebook instead, losing myself in the endless newsfeed—from random updates, to big announcements, anything to keep my mind off my ex-husband.
After discovering that Adrian had started dating again just two weeks into our separation, I blocked him on all my social media. I didn’t want to stumble across photos of him and his dates every time I logged on. And it’s helped, more than I expected.
It’s hard enough hearing about it from others; actually seeing it with my own eyes would be unbearable. The images of Adrian and Lucia flashes into my mind, and I’m suddenly back to that day—meeting Kaden for the first time, him pulling out a manila folder filled with the photos.
No. I’m not letting my mind go there again. God knows how many times I’ve replayed that day in my head. Thinking about my afternoon with Kaden instead, I type his name into the search bar, desperate for something else to focus on for a change.
His profile appears at the top of the screen, and I tap it. A smile tugs at my lips when I see a photo of him standing next to another man—a handsome one, if I’m being honest, and wedged between them is a little boy who looks a couple of years younger than Zac.
They’re wearing matching footy jerseys, pressed close together, and judging by the football field stretching out behind them, it looks like they were watching a live game at the time. It’s an achingly sweet photo that somehow eases my chest just a little.
I flick through the handful of photos he has set to public—some of him, some of others, some of places he’s been.
I move so quickly that I almost miss it: a photo of him, beaming with joy, seated in a light grey rocking chair, and what looks to be a nursery around him, cradling a tiny sleeping baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
The date tells me it was taken early last year, and judging by her size, she can’t be more than two weeks old at the time.
There’s no long caption. Just a simple text that says my heart, followed by a heart emoji.
It’s collected over a hundred and fifty likes and twenty-three comments, most offering congratulations, though a few go further, praising the ‘new daddy.’ It’s the only photo of Kaden with the baby, which makes me wonder if this is the child who he discovered wasn’t really his.
The baby who might still be my ex-husband’s, if he would just take the damn DNA test.
I fixate on the image a moment longer, zooming in, studying her tiny features, searching for even the slightest resemblance to Adrian.
But it’s impossible to tell—not from the angle, and not with how soft and indistinct newborn features are.
The only thing that could be his is the baby’s dark hair.
Kaden’s is lighter, almost sandy blond. Then again, from the photos in the evidence folder, Adrian’s mistress was dark-haired too.
Not wanting to obsess and spiral over the details, I exit the photo and return to Kaden’s feed.
Most of what’s there is private, leaving only tagged posts and shared links to scroll through.
One post, though, stands out—an image of a child-sized rocking horse.
The craftsmanship is flawless, the kind that immediately gives away that this is something he built.
I click on the image and it instantly takes me to an external site—a listing on an online marketplace. He’s been quietly selling his work, and as I look through the items, I realise more than half of them are already sold.
There are at least a dozen pieces in the listings—everything from wooden toys and jewellery boxes to walking sticks, kitchenware, and furniture like chairs, tables, and even shelves.
I browse through them with a quiet smile, knowing exactly how passionate and talented the man behind all these creations is.
I’m still scrolling through the listings when one item stops me in my tracks.
It’s a photo of the most stunning outdoor planter bench I’ve ever seen.
The base and integrated planter are made from concrete, while small slabs of natural timber are embedded along the top, forming the seat.
The parametric design is striking—modern, urban, and utterly unique, and I can’t help but admire its beauty.
The price is set at four hundred. Expensive, sure, but if I’m being honest, I think he may actually be underselling it. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click to order the item.
I know there are a million other things I should be spending money on, but I just can’t skim past this one.
It’s the first indulgent purchase I’ve made for myself in a long time.
And besides, it would look incredible in my new garden—once I finally get around to upgrading it.
Maybe this piece is exactly the push I need to get things moving.
As soon as the order is complete and the confirmation email lands in my inbox, I switch off my screen and put my phone on charge, because if I don’t stop now, I might just end up buying everything else on that list too.