Page 107 of Her Ex's Father
Inside the lodge, it’s cool but bright. The stone fireplace stands empty now, a vase of wildflowers sitting on the mantel instead. Juniper’s soft gurgles fill the great room as she kicks on the woven rug in front of me, her little hands batting at a set of wooden blocks. Hugh, walking through the room, stops to chat nonsense to her and stacks some of the blocks. Then his cell rings and he rises, startled, as if forgetting that he’s Ben’s assistant and not a babysitter—although heisJunie’s godfather.
I sip iced tea—peach, not pickle juice, thank God—and curl deeper into the armchair. My body feels different now: stronger, healed. The scar from the c-section is fading, but it will nevertruly go away: a line that reminds me every day of the night everything changed.
“Six months,” I murmur, half to myself. “She’s already six months.”
“She’s spoiled rotten,” Stella calls from the kitchen.
I grin. “That’s your fault. You keep buying her presents.”
Stella appears a moment later, holding two mugs of coffee, her new girlfriend trailing behind her with a plate of muffins still warm from the oven. They’ve been here a week, and it feels almost like when we were kids—except softer, freer. Stella laughs easier these days, her shoulders looser, her eyes less guarded.
I love seeing her like this.
We settle on the couch together, Juniper squealing as Stella leans down to nuzzle her cheek and Amira smiling to see it.
“She’s perfect,” Stella says for the hundredth time this week, her voice full of awe.
“She really is,” I agree, my heart swelling as I look at my daughter sprawled on her back, kicking happily. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
Stella hesitates, then sighs. “It’s still kind of sad, though. Mom and Dad don’t even know her. Don’t know what they’re missing.”
The old ache twists, but it’s softer now, dulled by everything I’ve built here. “I know. But I can’t make them want to be part of her life. Or mine.”
“They’re too wrapped up in their own mess anyway,” Stella mutters. “Did you hear? They’re separating. Divorce papers already filed.”
Amira gives her a quick look, as if to check in and make sure she’s okay. It opens my heart to her even more. This might be just the match she’s always missed.
I blink. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Apparently it’s ugly. Dad’s already moved out. Mom’s been sniping at him every chance she gets.”
“Dadmoved out?”
A strange mix of sadness and relief washes over me. Sadness because it’s the end of something permanent, relief because maybe now their bitterness won’t always be aimed at us. How strange to think of Mom there, in that great grand ranch house—who's helping her? Managing it all? Maybe Dad from afar, surely; he wouldn’t let Crown & Range unravel, not after how long it took to build.
Juniper squeals again, rolling to her side. Stella laughs, reaching down to steady her.
“You know what?” I say softly, watching my daughter. “I used to think home was something I had to earn. That if I worked hard enough, or proved myself enough, maybe I’d finally feel like I belonged. But now…” I trail off, looking around at the light pooling on the hardwood floor, at the open windows letting in the scent of pine and rain, at Stella’s smile, at Juniper’s tiny fists waving in the air. “Now I finally feel it. I’m home.”
Stella’s eyes soften, and for once, she doesn’t try to joke it away. She just nods.
Ben passes by just then, a folder tucked under one arm. He pauses, glances at us, and then leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. Then he tugs Stella’s ponytail, earning a laugh from Amira and a yelp of protest from my little sister.
“Don’t mind me,” he murmurs. “Just heading upstairs for a call.”
But before he goes, he crouches beside Juniper, brushing a fingertip over her hair. She grabs at him, gurgling, and he melts instantly, dropping from the crouch to his knees.
“You’re my whole world,” he whispers, meant only for her, though I hear it. “Both of you.”
When he straightens, I catch his hand, tugging lightly. “You okay?”
He nods, but then his lips twitch. “Better now that you’re not drinking pickle juice slushies anymore.”
I laugh, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t mock me. That was a legitimate craving.”
“Legitimate torture,” he teases, though his eyes are warm, full of that quiet devotion that never seems to fade. He kisses me once more, softer this time. “Our relationship won’t end like theirs, Maddie. I promise you that.”
The words settle in my chest like an oath, heavy and sure, and I wonder how he knows—if it’s something he learned on his own, or if he overheard Stella telling me.
