Chapter 13
June
The morning is ruined before it even starts.
Yesterday's golden sunlight replaced by a dull gray weight in my stomach that won't lift .
Adam and I move quietly through the kitchen, both of us saying nothing because there's nothing to say.
Not after those photos. Not after seeing, in stark digital clarity, how we've been watched.
We're already dressed—neither of us could stand being undressed after that—but we avoid the bedroom window anyway. I can't shake the image. A stranger in the dark, camera aimed at our most private moment, hungry for something that wasn't theirs to take.
My skin crawls. I keep glancing out at the yard, half-expecting to see someone standing there.
I barely taste the coffee. Adam turns his mug in his hands, jaw flexing rhythmically. The air feels heavy, every silence between us taut and unfamiliar.
Different from yesterday's easy quiet.
Adam calls Michael as soon as we finish our coffee. His lawyer answers on the first ring.
"Someone's been surveilling my house," Adam says, voice rough. "Taking photos through the windows. Last night."
Michael doesn't sound surprised. "That's harassment. Possibly stalking, depending on how we frame it. We can use this, Adam. If she's trying to leverage these against you—"
"She already has. Threatened to show the court."
A pause. Then Michael's voice sharpens. "Let her try. A judge won't look kindly on surveillance or trespassing on private property. File a police report immediately."
"I will."
"And Adam? This actually helps your case. She's showing a pattern of obsessive, controlling behavior. Don't let her intimidate you."
We file the report within the hour.
Deputy Ava Stewart takes it seriously in a way that's almost reassuring. She looks over the photos on Adam's phone, mouth pressed into a flat line. "We'll pay Ms. Spencer a visit. You did the right thing calling this in."
The whole process is clinical and cold—Ava's pen scratching across the statement form, Adam's hand unmoving on the kitchen table, my own voice hollow as I confirm I'm in the photos, yes, I consent to them being used as evidence.
Part of me wants to ask how many other people will see them now. How many eyes will study our private moment, dissect it, judge it.
My throat feels raw. Someone was out there. Watching. Recording. Just for Sarah's satisfaction.
After the police leave, the house is too quiet.
Adam sits across from me, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. I'm wrapped tight around myself, arms crossed over my chest, trying to hold the pieces together.
"I feel sick," I whisper. "I can't get it out of my head—someone watching us like that."
Adam looks up, eyes miserable. "I know. Me too."
A new panic claws up my throat. "What if she shows those photos to Emma? Or posts them online? What if everyone—"
"She won't." He shakes his head. "Michael says if she releases them publicly, it destroys her custody case. Even Sarah isn't reckless enough to throw that away."
"But she could," I say quietly.
Adam doesn't answer right away. I hear it in his silence—all the fear, the helplessness, the exhausted, endless love he has for his daughter that makes him vulnerable to exactly this kind of manipulation.
He reaches for me.
I let him pull me close. But the cold is still in my bones, spreading through my chest, and I don't know how to thaw it.
I don't know if I can.
***
Later that day, my landlord calls. The boiler's fixed.
I should be relieved—I can go home for the first time in weeks. But the thought of leaving Adam's house leaves me hollow and restless.
I stand in the doorway with my overnight bag, trying to convince myself that leaving is a return to normal and not an act of retreat.
Adam lingers by the door, hands shoved in his pockets. His posture says casual, but there's deep sadness around his eyes. "June, you don't have to go. Stay as long as you want."
"The boiler being fixed is a good thing," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. "And I need some space. To think."
He studies me. "To think about what?"
"About whether I'm hurting you and Emma by being here."
Adam's whole face falls. "You're not hurting us."
The words tangle in my throat. "Sarah's using me against you, Adam. If I wasn't in the picture—"
"She'd find something else." His voice hardens. "She's the problem, June. Not you."
"But maybe I'm making it worse."
He doesn't argue. Just looks at me with this helpless frustration, like he's watching me walk away and can't find the words to stop me.
I leave anyway.
In the echoing quiet of my own house, I let myself unravel.
Every surface feels wrong. The silence is too complete, suffocating. The air tastes stale, empty. My clothes still carry traces of Emma's strawberry shampoo, Adam's laundry detergent, the smell of their home.
Their home. Not mine.
Every moment with Emma replays in my mind—helping with homework, reading bedtime stories. Every moment with Adam—his hands in my hair, his mouth on my skin, the way he looked at me like I was everything.
Now it's all twisted by the harsh light of Sarah's accusation.
Emma's face crumpled when she saw my bag. She ran to her room without a word, and the sound of her door clicking shut was worse than anything Sarah could have said.
Guilt and doubt spiral in slow, grinding circles, swallowing up the warmth I'd fought so hard to claim.
I call Maya, desperate for any voice that isn't my own spiraling thoughts.
She answers on the second ring, sounding exhausted. "If this baby doesn't come out soon, I'm evicting it. I swear I can feel its feet in my ribs."
Her voice is real. Grounding.
"I don't know what to do," I say, voice cracking.
"About loving a man who loves you back?" she asks gently.
"About whether loving him puts Emma at risk."
The playful Maya I know goes quiet. When she speaks again, her voice is serious. "If Lucas had let his ex dictate our relationship, we wouldn't have this baby. Some things are worth fighting for, June."
"What if I'm not strong enough to fight?"
"Then you find people who'll fight with you." A pause. "That's what family does."
Later, I call Harper too.
She doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "You're spiraling."
"I'm processing."
She snorts. "You're letting Sarah win without even putting up a fight."
"What if fighting hurts Emma?"
"What hurts Emma is watching her father walk on eggshells around his own life. What helps her is seeing him happy. Seeing you in her life, making her happy too."
My throat tightens. "How do you know?"
"Because Emma talks about you constantly. 'June helped me with my homework,' 'June made the best cookies,' 'June read me three chapters.' You're already her family, June. Don't let Sarah take that away from both of you."
After we hang up, I sit in the dark, Harper's words pressing heavy against my chest.
I have a choice.
I can retreat—let fear and Sarah's manipulation drive me away from the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Or I can fight for the family I want.
The family that already feels like mine.
***
Friday evening comes, nerves twisting in my stomach. It's been a week since I moved back home—a week of sleeping in my own cold bed, missing Emma's chatter, missing Adam's warmth.
I bring homemade lasagna over for dinner, the kind that makes the whole house smell like comfort and Sunday afternoons. Emma launches herself at me before I'm even fully through the door, arms tight around my waist, voice bubbling over with excitement.
"JUNE! I missed you! I have something to show you!"
She bolts ahead to the kitchen, dragging me by the hand, already talking a mile a minute about friends and recess and art class and how Marcus ate paste again.
Adam grins in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, watching us like he's memorizing the moment.
Emma rummages through her backpack and produces a drawing—crayon blues and golds, the entire page a riot of color. Three stick figures stand in front of a building with a giant cupcake on top.
"That's you and Daddy and me at your bakery." She points, earnest and proud. "And those are the cupcakes."
My eyes sting. I crouch down to her level and wrap my arms around her. "It's perfect, sweet girl."
"Can we hang it on my fridge?"
"Absolutely."
Dinner is simple, easy. Conversation flows like it always has—Emma chattering through two helpings, Adam shaking his head fondly as she tries to negotiate for more dessert before she's finished her vegetables.
I watch him across the table. The tilt of his smile, the worry lines around his eyes softened for now. This table, this house—they really do feel like home.
Even with all the uncertainty threading through it all.
After Emma's tucked in I find Adam in the kitchen, standing at the sink, back tense, staring out the window into the dark.
I lean against the counter, heart kicking hard against my ribs. "I've been thinking."
He turns, reading my face carefully. "About?"
"About what I want. About whether I'm brave enough to fight for it."
He dries his hands on a dishtowel slowly, watching me like I'm the only thing in the room that matters. "And?"
I take a breath. "I want to be part of this. I'm not letting Sarah bully me out of your lives." My voice strengthens. "If she wants a fight, that's what she'll get."
The relief in Adam's eyes is so profound it steals my breath.
"You're sure?" His voice is rough, almost afraid to hope.
"Completely." I step closer. "I want you. I want Emma. I want this."
He moves into me—silent and fierce—arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me close. For a moment, we just stand there, breathing each other in. Quiet gratitude and bright, trembling determination in every exhale.
"We keep documenting everything," Adam murmurs against my hair. "Every threat, every photo, every contact. We build an airtight case. We fight her—we don’t let her take this from us."
"Never," I whisper.
A beat of stillness.
Then my phone buzzes, shattering the quiet. Maya's name lights up the screen.
My heart lurches.
I answer, breathless. "Hello?"
Lucas's voice comes through—frantic but exhilarated. "June! Maya's in labor. We're heading to the hospital right now—she's asking for you. Can you come?"
Adrenaline surges through me, fear and joy and wild purpose all tangled together.
"She's having the baby!" I spin to face Adam, eyes wide. "I have to go."
He squeezes my hand, urgent and warm. "Go. Text me updates."
Lasagna dish forgotten, shoes barely tied, I grab my keys and run for the door—pulse pounding, hope and resolve burning bright as I race into the night.
***
Hospitals always smell the same—harsh antiseptic, burnt coffee from the cafeteria, something metallic and urgent underneath it all. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as I hurry down the corridor.
Lucas is pacing in the waiting area, white as a sheet, feet scuffing the linoleum in frantic, uneven patterns.
He looks up the second I appear, relief and terror warring on his face. "They wouldn't let me in yet. Something about checking dilation—I don't know, they said wait."
I squeeze his shoulder. "She'll be fine. Maya's the toughest person I know."
I mean it, but my own nerves flutter beneath my ribs. This matters so much. This is the beginning of someone's entire world.
I'm barely settled into one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs when Harper and Nate rush in together—Harper looking faintly green, Nate's arm firmly around her waist, carrying two enormous coffees.
"First trimester nausea plus hospitals equals disaster," Harper mutters, squeezing my hand as she sinks into the chair beside me.
Nate hands Lucas one of the coffees and claps him on the back. "Figured this might be an all-nighter."
We wait.
Eleven o'clock slides by, then midnight. The hours are measured by Lucas's restless fidgeting, Nate's increasingly terrible jokes, Harper dozing against my shoulder. The hallway grows quieter, punctuated only by the distant wail of a newborn somewhere, the click and whoosh of automatic doors.
Every time a nurse appears, Lucas's whole body goes rigid. Every time they walk past without stopping, he slumps back down.
Finally, a little after two, a nurse steps into the waiting area. "Mr. Mason? You can come back now. She's ready to push."
Lucas bolts down the hall without a backward glance.
Harper, Nate, and I are left behind—voices hushed, phones glowing in our laps, coffee going cold.
2:45.
3:00.
The minutes crawl.
Then, around 3:30, a baby's cry pierces through the closed doors—thin, fierce, impossibly real.
We grab each other's hands, all of us holding our breath.
Lucas appears ten minutes later—dazed and teary and grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. Hair wild, shirt half-untucked.
"It's a boy," he chokes out. "Eight pounds, six ounces. Theodore Mason. Theo."
We cheer—tired, relieved, tearful. Harper hugs Lucas so hard he laughs. Nate claps him on the back. I can't stop smiling.
"Can we see them?" I ask, breathless.
"Give them a few minutes to clean up," Lucas says. "But yeah. Soon."
Harper wraps her arms around herself, one hand resting on her small bump. Nate rubs her shoulder gently. I can't tell if I'm shaking or floating.
An hour later, we're finally allowed in.
The room is dim and quiet. Maya looks exhausted and radiant at the same time—hair matted with sweat, eyes glowing. Lucas sits beside her, caught somewhere between disbelief and pure awe.
And in Maya's arms, wrapped in a blue hospital blanket, is the tiniest person I've ever seen.
"June," Maya says softly. "Come meet him."
She transfers Theo into my arms—carefully, like he's made of glass—and suddenly I'm holding this brand-new human. Warm and small and perfect, his face scrunched up, one tiny fist pressed against his cheek.
My heart splits open.
Harper and Nate take their turns, cooing and laughing quietly. But when Theo comes back to me, I can't look away from his face.
I stroke his impossibly soft cheek with one finger.
I want this.
Not just Adam. Not just Emma.
Everything.
Marriage. A family. Emma as my stepdaughter. Adam as my partner, my home. Babies that look like him, with his smile and my stubbornness.
The whole messy, beautiful, terrifying package.