No alcohol. Mocktails. Balloons that said “Welcome Home, Cal.”
Eli ran over first, hugging me tight around my back. “You did it. I’m proud of you.”
I hugged him back, my throat tight. “Thanks, kid. Means everything.”
Zariah raised a glass of sparkling cider, her smile genuine but cautious. “To second chances. And to not fucking them up again.”
Everyone laughed, soft, real, the sound filling the room like a balm.
My siblings texted me on how proud they were of me.
I looked around the table, at my family, chosen and blood, all here despite my mistakes.
Then at Hadley, holding Asher, smiling small but genuine, her eyes meeting mine with a spark of hope.
I lifted my glass, my hand steady for the first time in months.
“To starting over,” I said, voice thick. “The right way.”
They echoed it, glasses clinking.
And for the first time in years, I believed it might actually be possible.
Chapter 39
Kei
I’d spent the last few weeks telling myself the feelings would fade.
They didn’t.
Every time I saw Hadley, dropping off Eli’s robotics kit at the new apartment, bringing groceries when Zariah was sick, holding Asher while she answered the door with tired eyes and that quiet strength that always hit me like a punch, I felt it deeper.
The way she laughed at Eli’s blunt observations. The way she rocked Asher with one hand while texting me updates about Cal’s rehab progress. The way she looked at me sometimes, like she trusted me, like I was safe, and it twisted something inside my chest because I knew I wasn’t safe at all.
Not anymore.
Cal was out of rehab now. Sober. Trying. They were co-parenting, awkwardly, carefully, like two people learning to walk again after a car crash. Divorce papers were filed but not finalized. There was space. Hope, maybe.
For them.
But I was still here, wanting what I had no right to want.
I showed up at the Calabasas apartment on a Thursday afternoon with coffee and a bag of those sourdough bagels she liked. Asher was down for his afternoon nap. Two and a half months old and already running her entire life on a feeding-and-sleep roulette. Eli was at school. Zariah had stepped out for a meeting.
Hadley opened the door in leggings and one of Cal’s old band hoodies, too big, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was in a messy bun. She looked exhausted and beautiful and completely unaware of how much it wrecked me.
“Hey,” she said, stepping aside. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I was in the area,” I lied. “Figured you could use caffeine that isn’t hospital-grade.”
She smiled, small, real, and took the tray. “You’re a lifesaver. Come in.”
We ended up in the living room. Asher’s bouncer sat in the corner; toys scattered like colorful landmines. She sank onto the couch, curling her legs under her.
“How’s he doing?” I asked, nodding toward the nursery door.
“Regression phase,” she said tiredly. “Apparently two and a half months is when babies decide sleep is optional torture.”
