CHAPTER 35
Elena
Haille was the only thread connecting me to Adrian for the rest of my life. Even after we separated—after the divorce papers were signed and the last pieces of us were boxed into separate lives—we had still made a promise to each other. Whatever happened between us, Haille would come first. Always.
This Saturday, we were going to attend her daycare’s Family Day together.
On paper, it sounded simple. Almost wholesome in an ordinary way.
An event meant for children and their parents.
There would be small games, picnic blankets scattered across the grass, teachers with their practiced smiles.
There would be snacks laid out on folding tables.
Parents laughing a little too loudly, acting as if they weren’t exhausted, holding paper cups of coffee that would go cold long before they ever finished them.
But there was nothing ordinary about it when the family you belonged to no longer existed.
Ever since I’d read the daycare email—Family Day Picnic: Parents Welcome—something in my chest had been tightening in slow, careful increments.
Events like this had a way of pulling people back into their old shapes, a way of reminding the body what it used to be, returning you to a form the world still recognized, even when your life no longer fit inside it.
A family.
A shape my hands still remembered.
A shape my heart had once lived in like it was permanent.
Haille, of course, had been ecstatic. Ever since Wednesday, she’d been repeating Family Day like it was a spell. Something magical that meant balloons, dancing, and unlimited snacks.
When Saturday morning finally arrived, she didn’t even give me time to get ready.
“Mommy! We go now!” she announced, bouncing in place, wearing her shirt inside out and dragging her little backpack so hard it almost scraped the floor.
I laughed as I caught the strap before she could trip over it. “Hang on, baby. Mommy needs to get things ready first.”
She looked at me as if I’d said something absurd, something completely unreasonable.
I changed her quickly—plain white shirt, blue leggings—and tied her hair into two small pigtails that made her look even tinier than she already was.
Thankfully, she didn’t argue about her outfit.
I told her that her friends were wearing something similar, and she accepted it like it was sacred law.
I dressed myself in something simple, but not careless. A black-and-white striped shirt and jeans. My ash-brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Minimal makeup—enough to make me look awake, not enough to look like I was trying.
I needed to look like a mother at a daycare event. Not a woman stepping into a cruel imitation of a happy family portrait with her ex-husband.
And finally, when everything was ready and I’d reassured myself for the third time that nothing had been left behind, I buckled Haille into her car seat, started the engine, and drove.
The daycare wasn’t far, yet by the time we arrived, the field behind the building was already full.
The air buzzed with voices and laughter.
Parents hauled picnic blankets and folding chairs from their trunks.
Children ran wild across the grass like tiny hurricanes, fueled by sugar and freedom.
Teachers walked around wearing colorful lanyards, calling names with that bright, patient cheerfulness they probably saved for days like this.
“MOMMYYYY!” Haille squealed, pointing so aggressively her whole arm shook. “LOOK!”
I smiled. “We have to sign in first.”
She tugged at my fingers anyway, impatient, like the world might disappear if she didn’t reach it fast enough.
Thankfully, the registration line wasn’t too long.
After signing in, we were given small wristbands, and before I could properly thank the teacher, Haille was already dragging me toward the field as if I were her personal escort.
The first ten minutes passed in a blur.
Haille ran from booth to booth, shouting with delight when she spotted the bubble machine, then bouncing impatiently in line for cotton candy and laughing so hard her whole body folded in on itself as a clown twisted balloon animals into ridiculous shapes.
And then I heard his voice. Not loud, not sharp—just... familiar in a way that reached straight into muscle memory.
“Elena.”
My heartbeat stumbled before my mind even caught up.
I turned.
Adrian stood a few steps away, looking casually put together the way he always did.
A white polo with thin stripes. Khaki shorts that hit his knees.
Sunglasses tucked neatly into the collar of his shirt.
He looked like the version of himself that had always been easy to admire—the steady one.
The composed one. The one who never looked like life could shake him.
We stared at each other for a second too long, and I hated how my body still reacted, like it recognized him before my brain remembered it shouldn’t.
“Hi,” I said, forcing the word out like it was just another greeting.
“Hi,” he replied, his voice calmer than the noise around us.
Then his gaze shifted down toward Haille, and it was like the rest of the world disappeared. His expression changed instantly. Melted into something warm.
Haille noticed a moment later.
“DADDYYY!”
She let go of my hand without hesitation and ran straight to him. Her pigtails bounced. Her glittery sandals flashed under the sunlight. Pure joy carried her forward like gravity itself answered to her.
Adrian caught her easily, lifting her into his arms as if that movement had been carved into him. “Hey, bug,” he murmured, kissing her cheek once, then again. “Excited?”
“Yes!” she yelled, then leaned toward his ear and whispered with dramatic seriousness, “Daddy, come. We draw.”
Adrian laughed. A real laugh. The kind that used to live in our house. “Alright,” he said, amused. “Lead the way.”
He glanced at me then—not with entitlement, not with the familiar arrogance of a husband, but with something quieter. Like a man who understood boundaries now.
“Let’s go,” he said, shifting her onto his hip.
“Wait…” I murmured, remembering something as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wristband. Without thinking, I took his free hand and slipped the band around his wrist.
“Come on, Daddyy,” Haille whined.
My fingers stilled against his skin. Only then did I realize what I was doing. Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it. I looked up and found him already watching me.
“Thanks, Elena,” he said quietly.
I let go of his hand without answering.
“Let’s go, bug.” He set Haille down, and she instantly grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the drawing station like she owned him.
They sat on tiny chairs, crayons scattered across the table, while I stood behind them.
Haille chattered endlessly, narrating everything, critiquing Adrian’s drawing as if she were an art professor.
Adrian took it all with shameless amusement, laughing openly whenever she declared his work “not good enough.”
I watched them in silence.
Because suddenly, my chest ached—not the sharp kind of pain I’d grown used to, but something quieter now, something that didn’t scream betrayal anymore.
It whispered what could’ve been. Because this—this—was what it should have looked like, the version of us the world would have called beautiful, the kind of image that could have lasted.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my gaze away before the feeling could settle too deep.
We moved to the performance area afterward. Parents gathered in front of a small stage. Children were lined in neat little rows. Haille stood in the front—small, serious, determined—like she was preparing for something far bigger than daycare choreography.
Adrian stood beside me. Not too close, but close enough that our arms brushed sometimes when the crowd shifted.
When Haille spotted us, she waved so wildly she almost hit the child next to her.
“Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy!” she yelled, far too loudly.
Some parents laughed.
I smiled, but the ache stayed.
I watched Adrian watching her, and my throat tightened. He lifted his phone, recording her dance, smiling like he was witnessing something sacred. His face softened with pride in a way that almost made me swallow hard.
When the performance ended, applause rose in waves. Haille ran toward us the moment the teacher dismissed them, her face glowing.
“Was I good?!” she asked, breathless, like the answer mattered more than anything.
“You were amazing,” I laughed. “So amazing.”
Adrian patted her head. “You did so good, baby. I’m proud of you.”
Haille grinned so hard her cheeks puffed. “I was the best! Did you see me? Did you see me??”
Adrian’s chuckle was soft, warm. “Of course I did. The whole time.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “You danced like a little superstar.”
The tenderness in his voice tightened my throat, sharp enough to make me look away.
Then the teacher stepped forward again, clapping her hands. “Parents, please line up for the family photo!”
Parents began lining up. Couples slid arms around each other automatically. Hands on waists, fingers laced together. Children placed perfectly in the middle like proof of love. I stood frozen for half a second too long, my feet refusing the idea of stepping into that line.
Adrian noticed. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Didn’t say my name.
Instead, he crouched slightly toward Haille, his voice gentle. “Bug. Do you want to take a picture with Mommy and Daddy?”
“Yes!” Haille practically jumped.
Then she looked up at me with eyes so wide and hopeful it felt like my heart physically shifted. So I forced a smile, and I stepped forward.
Haille stood in the middle, gripping my hand and Adrian’s at the same time—like she was trying to pull the world back into the shape she remembered. Like she believed she could hold us together with her small fingers.
“Say cheese!”
“CHEEEESE!” Haille screamed with absolute conviction.
Click.
And for the smallest fraction of a second, my mind betrayed me. I imagined what this photo would have looked like if we were still married. Not in a desperate way. Not in a ‘take me back’ kind of way. Just in the quiet, ruthless way the mind works when it’s grieving something it can’t fix.
If there hadn’t been betrayal. If there hadn’t been a slow wound that rotted quietly for years, poisoning everything it touched. If there had only been us.
The thought hit too sharply—a clean blade.
I sucked in a breath and nearly lost it.
After the picture was done, Haille was already tugging Adrian toward the sensory booth, ready to play with kinetic sand. I stayed where I was for a moment, staring at the empty space where, seconds ago, we had looked like a family again.
Only to remember—we weren’t. Not anymore.
And that reality didn’t cut like a fresh wound. It lingered like an echo. A quiet reminder of the life that might have been ours, if love had been enough to keep it safe.