Page 97 of Filthy Rich Daddies
And I walk in, barefoot, still damp, belly round, heart full. I’m not all better. Trauma doesn’t heal with a single dip in the water.Therapy isn’t magic. It’s work. It takes dedication. But I feel better for what I’ve done. Peeled back a layer. Took the initial plunge.
That’s how I’ll get better. One wet step at a time.
34
ATTICUS
The water doesn’tripple unless she tells it to.
That’s what I notice first. The silence, the control, the stillness of it. It mirrors her now in a way it didn’t used to. Weeks ago, the water was the threat. A looming reminder of what she’d lost and what she couldn’t reclaim. Now, as she moves slowly through the shallows, waist-deep, steady and careful, it seems to recognize her as something sacred again.
She’s regaining her power. It’s a beautiful thing.
I sit nearby, but not too close. She told me once that proximity mattered—being near enough to catch her if she stumbled, but not so near that it felt like she was being watched for failure. So I find a balance. A chair in the shade, coffee in hand, the edge of my shoe resting against the sun-warmed tile.
I haven’t turned a page in the book resting in my lap in ten minutes. My eyes are on her.
This is the furthest she’s made it. Her therapist says she might be ready to try full immersion next week. I wonder if she knowshow much I dread that—how the idea of seeing her go under, even voluntarily, feels like testing fate.
But I keep that fear to myself. She deserves this moment. This progress.
She floats, arms stretched behind her, hair slicked back and glinting rose gold in the sunlight. Her face tilts skyward. Her eyes are closed. She’s so still that for a moment I panic—but then her lips part, and she exhales audibly, smiling.
She’s breathing.
I release the breath I’ve been holding, slow and careful.
She doesn’t know that thirty-one weeks is further than Serena ever made it. She doesn’t know that every day past that mark feels like playing chicken with my own grief. She shouldn’t have to know.
It’s mine to carry.
She laughs softly—just a quiet puff of joy—and my heart contracts. That sound. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I heard it without fear trailing after it like a shadow. That laugh is real. Whole. Untethered.
Colin told me about her breakdown in the nursery. How she bolted. How the sea-themed paint job triggered something in her so deeply embedded that it took her down with it. I wasn’t angry—not at him, not at her. Some trauma lives in muscle memory. It’s not rational. It justis.
He also told me how she came back. How she’s been reclaiming it one glance, one breath, one inch at a time.
That’s who she is. She does the terrifying thing even after it nearly broke her. She stays.
I respect that more than I can put into words. I love her for it. I am so happy that she’s the mother of our children. Her bravery is something that should be passed down.
The sliding doors open behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her parents—their voices are distinct and warm in that steady way people who’ve learned to live with isolation tend to be. Her mother carries two takeaway coffees. Her father has a tablet tucked under one arm.
They don’t speak right away. They just watch their daughter in the water. Cindy mutters, “She’s really doing it.”
I nod.
“That’s further than I ever thought she’d get,” her father murmurs. “We spent so long thinking she might never even touch a shoreline again.”
“She’s braver than anyone gives her credit for,” I say.
“She’s stubborn,” her mother corrects, but there’s affection in the word. “Even as a child. She’d refuse to leave the water, even when she was sunburned and wrinkled like a prune. She said the sea was the only place she ever felt at home.”
I glance back toward the pool. Thalassa turns in a lazy circle, gliding. Still smiling. Weightless.
Her mother follows my gaze. “That’s the smile we used to see. Before the storm.” Her voice catches on the last word, but she covers it with a sip of coffee. “I didn’t think we’d get her back,” she says. “And now here she is. Pregnant. Happy. In love.”
“You did the hard work,” I say. “We just showed up late and got lucky.”
