Page 146 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“No.” I lean back slightly, the memory arriving with more clarity than I want. “I pushed harder at the start. Independent reviews, private analysts, legal consultations.” My mouth tightens faintly. “I spent nearly a year trying to prove the report was incomplete.”

Addy stays quiet.

“But aviation investigations don’t operate on instinct,” I continue. “Not even informed instinct. They operate on evidence, and the evidence wasn’t clean enough to support what I believed had happened.”

“Because the system failure couldn’t be replicated?”

“Because the logs were fragmented, the crash damage was extensive, and every conclusion short of pilot error required proving a chain of technical fault no one could definitively isolate after the fact.” I pause. “And because grieving husbands who refuse to accept official findings aren’t viewed as objective sources.”

Her expression shifts slightly at that.

“The more I pushed,” I say quietly, “the more it started to look less like investigation and more like obsession.”

Which eventually, it became.

“At some point,” I say, “I had a choice between continuing to tear apart a dead system looking for certainty or being present for my son.”

Addy’s gaze softens slightly.

“I’m not sure I made the right choice,” I admit.

She leans back slightly, exhaling. “That’s why you built the new system.”

“Yes.”

“So no one else ever ends up in that situation again.”

“Yes.”

She nods slowly. “You’ve been carrying that alone.”

It’s not phrased as pity, just observation.

“I’ve been managing it,” I say.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” I admit.

She looks at me then, and there’s a flicker in her expression that isn’t curiosity or sympathy.

It’s understanding, unqualified, uncomplicated, and I don’t feel the need to reduce what I’m saying into something easier to accept.

“You’re the first person who’s asked the right questions,” I say.

Her breath catches slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

I become aware of the way the light catches in her hair, of the fact that the conversation has moved from structured to far less controlled.

Dangerous territory.

“Addy,” I say.

Her name sits differently in the air now.

She stills. “Mm?”