Chapter 59
Corine
It had been exactly a year since Allen was admitted to the facility. A year of silence, uncertainty, slow healing. And today, the call came.
My lawyer's voice was calm but edged with something close to finality. "The judge has signed off on his release," she said. "Allen is considered fit to reintegrate. He'll still be required to continue outpatient therapy, but... he's coming home today."
Home.
The word didn't feel right. Not anymore. Not for me.
But I knew it did for him.
And regardless of where we stood now, Allen had been part of my story. My pain. My joy. My children's father. That meant something, even if everything else had unraveled.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting Astrid's curls as she squirmed and whined. "Mommy! It's too tight."
"It's just a ribbon, love. Hold still."
Kyle came in dressed in the blue polo shirt Jasper picked out earlier in the week. He looked so grown-up, his shoes polished, hair neatly combed. He held a card in his hand.
"I made this for Daddy," he said quietly. "Do you think he'll cry?"
I paused. Swallowed. "Maybe. But it'll be happy tears."
Jasper walked in then, holding a small thermos. "For the road. Hot cocoa. I added those marshmallows Astrid likes."
I took it, forcing a grateful smile.
"You sure you don't want to come?" I asked him.
He shook his head gently. "This is about you and Allen. I know my place. I'll be here when you get back."
I nodded, heart aching with love for this man who understood the tangled pieces of me and never tried to rip them apart.
The drive was quiet. The kids were unusually subdued. Kyle clutched his card like it held the weight of the world. Astrid, now three and a half, stared out the window, humming something under her breath.
I had never been to the reception area before. Allen and I had only spoken through letters for the first six months, then phone calls. It was better that way.
Now, I stood with my children in a sterile waiting room with muted beige chairs and a clock that ticked too loudly. My heart thudded with a confusing mix of emotions-nervousness, grief, gratitude.
The double doors opened.
He walked out slowly, still lean but a little more fragile. His hair was longer, unkempt, his eyes wide and scanning until they landed on Kyle.
"Daddy!" Kyle shouted.
Astrid echoed, "DADDY!"
They ran, tiny sneakers slapping against linoleum floors. He knelt instinctively, arms out, and the impact of them crashing into his chest broke something open.
Allen sobbed.
Raw. Unrestrained. Like a man who'd been holding his breath for a year.
He held them so tightly I was afraid he might never let go.
"I missed you," Kyle whispered.
"So, so much," Allen choked out, kissing the top of Astrid's head. "You both grew so much. Astrid, look at you. You're so big now."
Astrid reached up and wiped his tears. "Don't cry, Daddy. I still love you."
He laughed through his tears. "I love you too, princess. Always."
I gave them space, standing a little to the side. Watching. Trying not to fall apart.
He finally looked at me.
I didn't move.
Allen walked over, slowly, gently placing his hands on the kids' backs as if anchoring himself to them.
"Corinne," he said.
"Hi."
"I didn't think you'd come."
"I wanted to. You deserve that. They deserve that."
He nodded, his eyes swimming again. "Thank you. For everything. For... not turning them against me."
I swallowed hard. "I would never do that."
"I know," he said. "And I'm sorry. For everything I put you through. For every moment you felt alone."
I didn't respond right away. The silence stretched, and then I exhaled, letting go of some of that heaviness.
"I forgive you," I said. "Not because I forgot. But because I can't keep carrying the weight of it. And because I want to move forward. For them."
He looked away for a moment, biting his lip. "Does it still hurt?"
"Yes. But not in the same way. I've grown around the pain. And I'm... I'm with someone now. Someone good. He's good to them. To me."
He didn't flinch. Just nodded slowly. "I'm glad. You deserve that."
I touched his arm briefly. "So do you. Therapy doesn't end here, Allen. You need to keep going. For them. For yourself."
He knelt again, this time on one knee before Kyle.
"You've gotten so big, little man. Are you still reading those superhero books?"
Kyle beamed. "Yes! And I'm in charge now. Mommy says I'm the man of the house."
Allen glanced at me.
"Technically Jasper's the man of the house," I clarified with a small smile. "But Kyle's second in command."
Allen chuckled. "I'm okay with that. That's a big responsibility, bud. Think you can handle it?"
Kyle puffed his chest out. "I've been practicing. I help Astrid when she cries and I even made her breakfast once. It was only cereal, but I didn't spill it."
"That's amazing," Allen said, pulling him into another hug. "I'm so proud of you."
Astrid tugged at his sleeve. "Can I still be your princess?"
"You will always be my princess," he whispered. "Nothing will ever change that."
We walked out of the facility together, the kids holding onto his hands tightly. He was still a little unsteady, still not completely whole, but he was trying. And that mattered.
I helped him into the car, buckling Astrid in as she showed him her stuffed unicorn. The drive to his place was slow, and quiet, the kind that spoke volumes in silence.
When we arrived, he stood at his front door for a moment, holding the keys.
"Feels weird," he said.
"You'll settle back in," I told him. "Just give it time."
He opened the door and stepped inside. The kids ran in, giggling, racing around as if it hadn't been a year. As if no time had passed.
He watched them, blinking back another wave of tears. "They didn't forget me."
"They never would."
He turned to me. "Thank you for bringing them."
"Of course."
"And thank you for loving them the way you do. For protecting them. For protecting me, even when I didn't deserve it."
I shook my head, voice thick. "You were never undeserving of love, Allen. Just... lost."
He took a deep breath. "I'm finding my way back. Slowly. I don't know what the future holds, but... if there's ever anything I can do to repay you-"
"You already have. You're still here. That's enough."
We hugged. Brief. Real. Closure wrapped in forgiveness.
I kissed both kids goodbye and left them there with him for the afternoon. Let them have that piece of him.
And as I drove back to Jasper, to the life I was now building, I realized something:
Closure doesn't always come wrapped in neat boxes. Sometimes, it comes in tear-stained hugs, broken apologies, and the strength to say goodbye without anger.
And sometimes... love doesn't have to be forever to still be real.