Page 74 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"I'll help," Jakob offers, hand still warm against my back. "Then maybe we can all go to the park again. While the weather holds."
"Yes!" Jaden pumps his fist, victory assured in his mind. The day mapped out in his imagination: breakfast with both parents, homework with dad, family outing to the park. The holy trinity of childhood stability.
I should say no. Should invent a work emergency. Should maintain the careful distance that's protected both of us for four years. Should remember that this arrangement is temporary, practical. A business solution to a security problem.
Instead, I find myself nodding. Accepting. Surrendering to the moment and the hope in my son's eyes and the weight of Jakob's hand against my spine.
"Park sounds good," I say, the words emerging before I can examine their wisdom. "But homework first. Non-negotiable."
Jaden groans but doesn't argue, recognizing the tone that signals immovable boundaries. Jakob's hand tightens briefly against my back before dropping away, the loss of contact immediate and disorienting.
"Pancakes first," he says, moving to the stove with easy confidence. "Can't solve math problems on an empty stomach."
We fall into a rhythm then, the three of us moving around the kitchen in a dance that feels both foreign and familiar. Jakob flipping pancakes with unnecessary flourish. Jaden setting the table without being asked. Me slicing fruit into the precise shapes our son prefers, maintaining the illusion of healthy choices alongside chocolate chip indulgence.
It feels right. It feels easy. And nothing this easy ever lasts.
* * *
"X equals seven," Jakob says, pointing to the worksheet spread on the dining table. "See how we got there?"
Jaden nods, pencil tapping against the paper in the rhythm of consideration. "So for the next one, I divide both sides by two?"
"Exactly."
I watch them from the kitchen doorway, witnessing this exchange of knowledge, this moment of patience and pride and presence. Jakob leans over our son's shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his chair, the other gesturing toward the equation.
He hums softly as Jaden works through the problem—a half-conscious habit I'd forgotten until this moment. A low, melodic sound that vibrates beneath his words. A soundtrack to concentration.
The tune catches in my chest, memory ambushing me without warning. That same humming, that same melody, filtering through a half-open door four years ago. Three months after he moved out. Two weeks after the divorce was finalized.
I'd come to pick up Jaden for his weekend visit. Had arrived early, key still working in the lock he never changed. Had followed the sound of humming to find them together at this same table—Jakob patient, present, engaged with our son in a way he'd never been with me.
In that moment, watching them through the doorway, I made a decision. Didn't fight for full custody. Didn't restrict visitation. Didn't punish Jakob for leaving me by limiting his access to Jaden. Because the evidence was before me: he was a better father than he'd been a husband. More patient. More present. More willing to give of himself.
And Jaden deserved that version of his father, even if I'd never experienced that version of my husband.
"Mom! I got it!" Jaden's voice pulls me from the memory, back to the present moment that mirrors the past with uncomfortable precision. "X equals three!"
"Good job, buddy." I push off from the doorframe, moving into the room, into the tableau of father and son that once shattered and rebuilt my understanding of family. "I knew you could do it."
"Dad showed me a trick." His face bright with accomplishment and the simple joy of shared knowledge. "It makes way more sense now."
"Your mom's the one who insisted on this school," Jakob says, straightening, creating space that I instinctively fill, the three of us forming a triangle of connection. "She knew they'd challenge you the right way."
The acknowledgment surprises me—not the fact, which is true, but his willingness to credit me with it. To recognize my role in shaping our son's education, his opportunities, his future.
"It was a joint decision," I concede, offering reciprocal recognition that costs me nothing but pride.
Jakob's eyes meet mine over Jaden's head, something passing between us that goes beyond co-parenting courtesy. A current of understanding, of shared purpose, of mutual respect that feels dangerously like foundation-building.
"Only two more problems," Jaden says, oblivious to the silent exchange above him. "Then can we go to the park?"
"That was the deal," Jakob confirms, breaking our gaze to focus on our son. "Finish strong, then we'll play."
I step back, needing distance from the domesticity that threatens to unravel four years of careful boundaries. From the simple rightness of this moment that contradicts everything I've told myself about why our marriage failed, why Jakob left, why reconciliation was never an option.
Because watching him now—patient with our son, present in this moment, humming that same melody that once soundtracked a revelation—forces me to confront an uncomfortable truth: love was never our problem.
