I’d come here to survive.
But somewhere in the last three days, I’d started to live.
I took the dinosaur from Luke, knelt down, and whispered, “Okay.”
He threw his arms around my neck.
Caleb and Noah rushed forward.
Evan hung back, but when I held out my hand, he took it.
Adrian watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable, except for the single tear that slipped down his cheek before he turned away.
Three months later, Maya’s surgery was a success.
She moved into the house two weeks after she was released from the hospital, and Luke gave her the dinosaur permanently.
Evan taught her to play chess.
Caleb built her a dollhouse.
Noah read to her every night.
And Adrian looked at me one evening, across a table full of laughter and food and noise, and said, “Thank you.”
I didn’t ask what for.
I just reached for his hand and held on.
Because sometimes survival looks like catching a toy mid-air.
And sometimes it looks like finding a family when you weren’t even looking for one.
But I didn’t know that the story wasn’t over.
I didn’t know that three months of peace was all we’d get before the past came back to destroy everything.
It started with a phone call I wasn’t supposed to hear.
I was in the hallway outside Adrian’s office, carrying laundry, when his voice cut through the door—low, tense, dangerous.
“I don’t care what she wants. The answer is no.”
Silence.
“She gave up that right four years ago.”
My stomach dropped.
She.
There was only one person he could be talking about.
The boys’ mother.
Who was supposed to be dead.
I stood frozen, laundry basket pressed against my ribs, as Adrian’s voice dropped to a growl.
