Page 97 of From Maybe to Baby

I sit there, staring at my own untouched plate. Spaghetti night used to be a tradition. Now it’s just another thing Alexa took with her when she left.

By the time the kids are in bed—Jace curled up with her stuffed bear, Lukas clutching his hockey stick like it’s a lifeline—I’m sitting in the dark, phone in hand, rereading her last message:

I’m so sorry.

Sorry. Like that fixes anything. Like it explains the empty chair at the table or the way my son has ditched his hockeypractice chart, like it wasn’t once something that made him shake with excitement

The kids leavetheir dinner untouched that first night. Not even garlic bread, which usually starts a small war at the table, gets touched. I wrap up the leftovers out of habit, though I know they'll just sit in the fridge until they grow mold.

Frenchie arrives early the next morning, taking in the situation with practiced efficiency. She's seen this before—the aftermath of Genny. She knows what to do.

"We will start with breakfast," she announces, already pulling out pans. "Then school, then practice,oui? Normal schedule."

Normal. Like anything about this is normal.

I head to morning practice, leaving Frenchie to handle school drop-off. The locker room is quieter than usual—everyone's seen the news, read the stories, heard the rumors. No one mentions it directly. Hockey players know when to keep their distance.

Pre-game warm-ups feel off. Actually, everything feels off. Coach pulls me aside after I miss an easy pass for the third time.

"Whatever's going on, Knight, you need to get it together. Team's counting on you."

He's right. I know he's right. But knowing doesn't translate to doing, and by the first period, it's clear this isn't going to be my night.

Vince finds me between periods, his ubiquitous tablet in hand. "We need to address the media speculation. Give me something to work with here."

"No comment."

"Jonas—"

"I said no comment," I snap, staring down at him in a way that causes him to take a step back. And then another.

The second period goes worse than the first. I'm too slow, too distracted, too busy noticing the empty seats where Alexa should be sitting. Coach benches me for the third. Can’t say I blame him.

"Get your head straight," he says with uncharacteristic patience. "Take tomorrow off if you need it."

I don't need time off. I don’t want time off. I just need to get my shit together. I can handle the juggling act of being a single dad and a professional athlete. I managed before Alexa came on the scene. I can manage now.

At home, Frenchie's note details the day—Lukas struggled with homework, Jace refused her usual snack, both in bed by eight. Standard information, practical updates. No color coding. No stickers. No personal touches.

My phone lights up with messages—Coach wanting to discuss tomorrow's practice, Vince with more PR concerns, the team owner checking in. I ignore them all.

The house feels wrong. Not just quiet—we've done quiet before—but off-balance. Like someone rearranged all the furniture two inches to the left. Everything's where it should be, but at the same time, it’s not.

Frenchie institutes new routines. Different from Alexa's, different from Genny's, different from before. Maybe that's better. Clean slate and all that.

"The children need consistency," she explains. "Structure."

She's right. I know she's right. But knowing doesn't make it easier to watch Jace bravely try to dress herself in the morning, or see Lukas pretend he has no trouble tying his own shoes.

Watching them pretend to be okay is the hardest part.

My phone buzzes with another message from Coach:

Take the weekend. Sort it out. Be ready Monday.

I should argue. Should insist I'm fine. Should prove I can handle this.

Instead, I just reply:

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