Chapter 29
Allen
The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the kind that crept under your skin, wrapping around your throat until you couldn’t breathe right. That was the kind of quiet I lived in now. Our home—no, my home. The place that used to echo with Corinne’s laughter, with Kyle’s tiny feet running across the hardwood floors, with Astrid’s baby cries and gurgles. Now, it was just a shell.
She was gone.
Almost two years. It had been almost two years since the divorce. Almost two years since I destroyed everything.
I didn’t even know where she was.
She had vanished. No one knew a damn thing. Not even the media, and that was saying something, considering how relentless they could be when it came to Corinne. One day she was the nation’s favorite runway goddess, and the next—a ghost. And I? I was the bastard who had ruined it all. Her, me, our family.
The silence in the house mocked me. It was filled with memories I couldn’t escape. Our wedding pictures were still hidden somewhere, tucked away where I couldn’t see them but couldn’t throw them out either. Her favorite coffee mug sat in the back of the cabinet. Kyle once found one of her old scarves and asked if she was coming home soon. I hadn’t known what to say.
I didn’t deserve to know.
My parents didn’t talk about her. They were civil, but I could feel the disappointment radiating off them every time I visited. My mother couldn’t even look me in the eye some days. And the friends I used to have? They faded. Not all at once. But slowly, like colors in a sun-drenched photo.
Corinne was my world. And now she was gone.
It was a Saturday evening. My weekend with the kids. But I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t been able to do it for months.
Corinne’s mother always brought Kyle and Astrid over, punctual and polite. Never said much. She didn’t need to. The look in her eyes said it all. I handed her the envelope with the monthly support money and tried not to feel like a stranger.
Instead of spending time with them, I dropped them at my parents’ place. Again. Like I always did. And it didn’t even take five minutes before my mother cornered me in the kitchen.
"Allen," she said, her voice low and firm, arms crossed. "Sit."
"Mom, I can’t stay long."
"You’ll sit," she insisted, pointing to the stool by the island. "You haven’t stayed with the children in months. You barely speak. Kyle’s starting to ask questions."
I rubbed my hands over my face. I hadn’t slept well in weeks. Or eaten properly. "I know."
"No, you don’t."
I glanced at her, saw the soft hurt in her eyes, the way her shoulders were weighed down by worry.
"You need help, Allen," she said gently. "This…this isn’t who you are."
"I’m fine," I replied, too fast.
"You’re not. You can’t even look at your own daughter without falling apart. You haven’t bonded with Astrid at all, and that little girl needs her father. Kyle needs you too."
I swallowed hard. "I don’t deserve them."
"That may be," she said. "But you’re still their father. And they deserve you. The real you. Not this ghost."
I couldn’t speak. My throat burned, but no words came out.
"Talk to someone," she pleaded. "Get therapy. You’re not the first man who’s lost something and broke. But you don’t have to stay broken."
I stared down at my hands. They looked older. Tired.
"Do you know where she is?" I whispered.
She hesitated. "No. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. She asked for space. You lost that right when you stopped being her husband."
It stung. But she was right.
Suddenly, a small figure appeared in the doorway. Kyle.
"Daddy?" he asked, stepping in with his big brown eyes blinking up at me. He looked so much like her.
I forced a smile. "Hey, buddy. You having fun with Grandma and Grandpa?"
He nodded and walked over slowly. "Grandma said you’d read to me. The spaceship book."
God. The spaceship book. The one Corinne used to read to him every night. The one he made me read when he first started coming here. I always made up excuses to avoid it.
"Sure," I said softly. "Let’s go."
He took my hand. Small and warm.
We went into the living room and sat on the couch. I opened the worn-out pages and started reading. My voice shook, but Kyle didn’t seem to care. He leaned against me, his head on my chest.
"Do you miss Mommy?" he asked out of nowhere.
I froze.
"Every day," I admitted.
"I miss her too," he whispered. "But I still love you, Daddy. Even if you're sad a lot."
Tears pricked my eyes. I pulled him close.
"I love you too, Kyle. So much."
He snuggled into my arms, and for a moment, the silence didn’t feel so cruel.
But when I went home later that night, the void returned.
And I realized something I should’ve known all along:
I didn’t just lose Corinne.
I lost myself.