Page 56 of October
He held onto me a little tighter, burying his face deeper into my shoulder like he was trying to disappear into safety. "Good," hemumbled, voice muffled but honest. "'Cause I really,reallylove spending time with Dad."
My heart clenched—not in pain, but in something close to gratitude. I pulled back just enough to see his face and brushed the hair from his forehead. Then, I kissed him there, softly, slowly.
"I'm so glad you do, sweetheart," I said, my voice steady even though emotion swirled beneath the surface, and I meant it. Deep in my bones, I meant it. Because healing wasn't just mine to carry. It belonged to him too. It lived in his laughter, in the way he ran through the house with comic books clutched in his hand and dirt on his shoes. It lived in the freedom of knowing he didn't have to pick sides. That he was safe to love both his parents without guilt or fear.
We were undoing something. Quietly. Carefully. Not just the damage from the past few years, but the heaviness that divorce can sometimes sew into a child's heart—the fear of fracture, of lost love, of being caught in the crossfire of adult decisions they never made.
He leaned his head against my chest again, his breath evening out, and I held him there for a while longer. No rush. No pressure. Just stillness. Behind us, life waited, dishes in the sink, unread messages, the next complicated conversation I knew was coming.
But for now, there was only this moment.
And it was enough.
Chapter Eighteen: Ashes and Anchors
My parents still stayed with me. Honestly, I had begged them to. I wasn't subtle about it. After everything that had unravelled, the scandal, the fallout, the nights I didn't trust myself to hold it together, I needed them. Not just to help with the kids, but to be near. To remind me that I still had a foundation beneath me, even if the walls had cracked.
And they didn't hesitate. Not even for a second. My mom picked up where I had dropped things, meals, laundry, life. My dad, well... my dad surprised me. I thought he would come in swinging. Literally. The day he told me he was going to Thomas's office, I braced myself. I was convinced he'd barge in, crash through the doors and flatten him with one punch. My dad's tall—broad, commanding. When he's angry, he looks like someone you don't want to be on the wrong side of.
But that's the thing about my father. Underneath all that strength, he's gentle. Measured. He knows exactly how much force to use, and when to use none at all. When he came back from that meeting, he didn't storm in. He sat beside me on the porch and calmly told me everything that happened. Word for word. No embellishment. No drama. Just facts, and thoughhe didn't say it outright, I could hear something in his voice, something like reluctant understanding.
That subtle shift in Thomas... the way he stood a little straighter, looked a little less lost. My father's fingerprints were all over it, not in control but in care. He hadn't forced it. He hadn't assumed. He asked me first—quietly, respectfully—if it was okay. If I was comfortable with him stepping into that space. Not as some savior, but maybe as a mentor. A guide. A steady hand on Thomas's shoulder when everything else was falling apart.
And of course, I was fine with it.
Then my dad started taking him on these mysterious "outings." At first, I didn't think much of it. I figured it was part of their awkward father-in-law/broken-son-in-law bonding. But then it became regular—once a week, sometimes twice. They'd leave early, come back late. My dad was tight-lipped about it, which wasn't unusual. But Thomas? He got oddly vague.
Every time I asked where they'd been, he'd give me that distracted half-smile. "Just out. Talking. You know, guy stuff."
"Guy stuff?" I repeated once, raising an eyebrow. "That's not suspicious atall."
He'd just laugh it off, but I noticed the way he'd quickly change the subject or suddenly get busy helping the kids with something.
"You guys go hiking or something?" I asked one day. "Running? ...Fishing?"
Thomas froze like I'd accused him of burying bodies in the woods. "God, no. No fishing," he said quickly, almost too quickly.
I narrowed my eyes. "Okayy."
One morning, curiosity finally got the better of me. I found my dad in the kitchen, buttering toast with that slow, deliberate rhythm he always used when something was on his mind. The radio was low, murmuring an old jazz tune, and the scent of coffee lingered in the air. I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him for a beat before I spoke.
"Where are you going today?" I asked, trying to sound casual, like I wasn't already wondering too much.
He didn't look up. "Somewhere."
I frowned, pushing off the counter just slightly. "Dad!"
He glanced over at me, his expression calm and unreadable. "What?"
I didn't press him. I sighed "Whatever!" then i added, "Jimmy's getting better," I said,
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. I noticed. I'm glad."
He paused, then looked at me a little more closely. "But what about you? Are you getting better too?"
I looked away, the answer already sitting in my chest. "Depends on the day. Like a wave," I murmured. "Some days I'm suffocated by pain and grief. Other days... I'm adapting."
He nodded quietly, letting my words hang between us. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I still can't believe my marriage is really over. All that's left now is signing the divorce papers. I never thought it would end like this."
