alvy helene (nsfw)

He’s standing on the other side of the yard, the sun overhead shining brightly, accentuating the gentle wisps of grey beginning in his dark hair. “You, uh…you did a real good job on those. They look nice.”

You adjust the butterfly, tugging gently on the top of the right wing. “Thanks. You think she’ll like them?”

Joel snorts. “‘Course she will. You kiddin’ me? ‘Specially if she finds out her momma made ‘em for her.”

The sentiment makes you smile. Sarah’s always been thoughtful. Kind and compassionate in the way only a ten year old girl can be, heart pure and untouched by the weight of the world. “Yeah, well—she deserves it. We did a real good job on her,” you say. “Even considering…you know.”

The separation. 

It was messy and painful and the worst thing you’ve ever endured. But a necessary evil. Because Joel was a perfect man by all rights, but being perfect and being present were two very different things. 

You excused it for a long time. Too long, truthfully. All those nights you’d spent alone when Sarah was having a sleepover, all those school milestones he missed; kindergarten graduation and her last soccer game of the season and the parent teacher conferences that had revealed she’d gotten straight A’s in second grade.

Joel had spent all that time working—building homes for other families while his wife was alone, all but begging him to come to dinner before eight just three days out of the week.

But he never did. Too focused on filling a bank account full of money he would never be home long enough to use. 

And one day, he’d gotten off of work well after ten to find your wedding ring on the kitchen table and a duffel bag full of your clothes missing from the closet.

And now, nearly three years after that fateful night, he’s staring at you from across the decorated back yard with too much affection in his eyes. He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it in his gaze. The warmth, the familiarity, the longing. “You ever think about it? ‘Bout…what we had?”

It’s a stupid question. Even after so long apart it’s still all you think about. Because when things were good, they were good. Joel was your best friend. Your protector, your provider, your lover. Everything you’d ever wanted in a man. 

Sweet and strong. A terrible cook, but he was the only one who’d ever gotten your coffee just right. The kind of husband who always added your favorite snacks to the grocery cart even if they weren’t on the list. Who kissed your forehead before work whether you were awake to know of it or not. Loyal as a dog, too. The kind of man who’d defend your name in a room you weren’t in, even now, even without the weight of a wedding band on your ring finger.

There were a million and one reasons you loved Joel Miller.

But what you needed was more of him. 

“Of course I do,” you admit, pointedly keeping your eyes on the decorations and fixing things that don’t need to be fixed. “Do you?”

You can hear him shift behind you. “I've only ever loved three people my whole life,” he says. And you know what’s coming next before he speaks, because it’s something he’s said for years, long before your marriage. “You’re top of the list.”

It makes your chest pull tight. Because even while you’d made the decision to put the softness of your own heart first, the love between you was never in question. 

And you still want him. Of course you do.

But what you deserve is a husband who shows up for you not just when you need him there, but when you want him there, too.

You swallow hard, trying to clear the emotion lodged at the back of your throat like a stone.

The sound of his boots is heavy, even in the plush summer grass. His presence demands to be felt, despite all your efforts to block it out.

With a trembling hand, you adjust the silver butterfly again. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice cracking. And then again, clearer this time. “Yeah, I know. I love you too, Joel. I think that goes without saying, doesn’t it? But I know what I deserve now, too.”

When you finally find the courage to turn and face him, your ears ring and your eyes grow watery. The expression on his face softens, and his hands twitch at his sides. A long-laid instinct to pull you in close, to soothe the ache in your heart in the ways only he could.

But he doesn’t.

And you admit, silently, internally, only to yourself—that you want him to. Want him to press a kiss to the top of your head and wrap his strong arms around you, enveloping you with his warmth. You want him to make you feel whole again, to tell you he’ll be different, that he’ll be better. 

“You’ve always deserved the world,” Joel whispers instead. “An’ every single day I regret not givin’ it to you, baby. M’sorry.”

His words are genuine. From an emotional place inside his chest that you used to have to beg for him to allow you to see. 

And now here he is, opening himself up to you, completely unprompted. 

Hope flickers like a flame in your heart. Bright and beautiful and tempting. 

You want to believe him. You do.

You search his face, trying to find a lie. Trying to find anything, anything to pull you back from the edge of this longing.

And then, like a sign from God, the glass door to the backyard slides open. 

“Good! I’m glad you’re both here.” Tess strolls onto the deck like she owns the place. As if this house wasn’t yours at one point. As if you hadn’t picked out the color of the backsplash in the kitchen and the lace curtains over the windows or the pale green rug at the front door.

But you remind yourself that Tess is…nice.

And that fact is proven when you notice the multi-colored gift bags draped over each of her arms. Neon yellows and purples and blues, stuffed with pink tissue paper.

Joel leaves your side to help her carry everything. Ever the gentleman.

You try not to roll your eyes. Remind yourself that all the theatrics are for your daughter. That today isn’t about you. It’s about Sarah, and if Tess cares about her enough to remember her birthday and buy her gifts, then maybe she isn’t so bad.

Tess sets all of her things on the ground near the cake table. She runs her hands down the front of her jeans and gives you a tight-lipped smile. “You think I overdid it?”

Yes, you want to say. There’s the smallest bit of pink tulle sticking out of one of the bags, and you want to mention that Sarah hates the way tulle feels and will recoil the moment the plasticky fabric touches her fingertips.

You clear your throat instead. “Uh, no! No. Not at all. Thank you? Yeah, thank you for一uhm…for remembering her birthday. How…thoughtful.” 

Joel coughs. And you know it’s an intentional sound, covering up an ill timed laugh. The air feels thick. Awkward and uncomfortable, and you think everything could be solved if only Tess would just leave.

“There’s drinks in the fridge,” Joel tells her. “Soda and beer. A couple of wine coolers. Feel free to help yourself. Tommy’s getting Sarah from her sleepover and pickin’ up pizza on the way here.”

Tess nods and you try not to notice how much warmer her voice is when she speaks to him. “Oh, perfect. It’ll be such a good day, she’ll love it,” she says.

Your eyes narrow and you tilt your head curiously. You hate when she does that一speaks as if she knows Sarah. Like they’re familiar, like she’s anything to your daughter except for her dad’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. “You don’t know that,” you say, masking the venom in your voice. “She might hate it.”

She won’t, but that’s not the point.

“I just meant…well, Sarah’s a really sweet girl. I’m sure she’ll just enjoy everyone being together,” Tess says softly. Reasonably. Actually kind, devoid of the bitter undertone your words possess.

It only makes you hate her more.

“Right.” The word comes out short. Clipped. A little sarcastic.

Silence lingers. Joel stands beside her, scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed on a strand of white wisteria and adamantly avoiding the altercation you’re encouraging.

Tess sighs, and then stares hard at the side of Joel’s face. “Well. I’m gonna grab a beer, you want one?”

Joel shakes his head. “Later. Thanks, though.” 

The moment she slips through the glass door and into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone once more, you feel yourself deflate. “What if I wanted a beer? Not very considerate of her to offer to grab you one and not—”

A grin stretches across Joel’s face. One of those smiles he can’t help, one that reaches his eyes and has them crinkling around the corners. He shakes his head the moment you start speaking and cuts you off to say, “You hate beer.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.”

“Yes she does, we talk about you all the time.”

You scoff, the sound coming out both surprised and infuriated. “You talk about me? Why? I’m sure she’s got an awful lot to say about the bitter baby momma, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“What? I’m just asking! You guys don’t have anything better to talk about?”

“C’mon, now. Don’t get all crazy,” he says. But he still wears that smirk, like he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the show, and doesn’t tell you to relax or be nice. He doesn’t even try to.

“You can’t seriously expect me to like her, Joel. She’s coming to our daughter’s birthday party while shacking up with my ex husband—”

His mirth falls, replaced with an air of seriousness. “I’m not your ex husband,” he insists. “I never signed those papers.”

“Semantics,” you say.

But Joel’s face contorts further, and though he passes it off as irritation you can see the injury behind his eyes. Can see the way your words hurt him. “No,” he says, voice firm. “We might be separated for now but I’m still your husband.”

His gaze feels heavy, piercing.

You don’t want to argue. And it is technically true, anyway. So you turn your attention away from him, unwilling to feel that longing so acutely, wishing the goosebumps on the back of your neck away. “Okay,” you concede, the softness returning to your voice. “I’m sorry.”

Not long after, Tommy pulls up in the driveway. You and Joel stand on the front porch, and Sarah’s launching herself out of the back seat before Tommy fully turns the engine off.

“Momma!” Her hair shifts around her ears as she runs to you, throwing her arms around your waist and burying her face into the softness of your belly.

It was Joel’s week to have her, so you haven’t seen her pretty face since the family dinner Wednesday night, and you swear she’s grown two inches in the last three days.

Everything feels more at ease the moment she’s in your hands. The Earth feels brighter, warmer. “Happy birthday, sweet pea! Did you have a good time with Ellie? You guys get to go swimming like you wanted?”

She nods and takes a step back. “We did! And look, look!” Sarah lifts her arm to show you the blue and white pony bead bracelet on her wrist. “We made friendship bracelets too!”

You run your hands through her hair and sing your praises like you always do, listening intently while she recounts each moment of the sleepover to you.

Tommy carries three pizzas inside, and you and Sarah follow him to the kitchen. She’s flipping open the container and pulling a slice right from the box, still talking animatedly around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

You turn to grab a plate from the cupboard, but Joel’s already got one in hand, passing it to you to give to Sarah.

It feels seamless. Routine. The two of you working together, around each other, with each other.

Try as you might to focus on Sarah’s words, all you can think about is the rough texture of Joel’s hand as it brushes yours and lingers a second too long.

You can feel it in that touch. The want. The longing. The despair.

The remnants of your conversation in the backyard lingers in the back of your head. I’m still your husband, he’d said. 

And despite how badly you wanted to hate him and allow yourself to be free, he was never an evil man, just an absent one.

Tess speaks behind you. Something about how she knows Ellie’s mom from work. And it reminds you that while you might still be stuck, right where you were three years ago when you left him, Joel already has someone else. Someone to fill the gap you’d left behind. 

“Can you get me some water, mom?”

Sarah. The day is about Sarah, you remind yourself. Not about you or Joel or the goddamn mistress he invited to your child’s birthday party.

You smile and shake the tension from your bones. “‘Course I can.”

The five of you eat together at the dinner table, and truth be told Tess’s presence isn’t a bad one. You think, in another life, you might even like her. Sometimes she makes quick quips towards Tommy and you find yourself actually laughing. 

But dinner comes to a sudden halt the moment Sarah’s standing to dump her plate in the sink and her eye catches on the glint of a silver butterfly in the back yard. 

She’s a gasping, giggling mess of a girl as she takes in all the decorations, running her small fingers over each strand of wisteria. She takes a running leap in an attempt to touch the streamers overhead but is still just a hair too short at ten—now eleven years old.

Joel lifts her onto his shoulders so she can grab at them, and she spends the next five minutes directing him like a train conductor around the back yard.

It makes your chest pull tight, watching it all unfold. Joel’s always been the best father—before and after the separation. Sarah is the one thing the two of you have done right.

When she’s ready to open her gifts, Joel sets her in the center of the folding table and everyone gathers around her. Sarah chooses the gift wrapped in paper decorated with moons and stars first—your gift.

You try not to feel so smug about it, watching her sift through all the glittering bags from Tess to find yours. 

She peels the paper back to uncover the collectors edition box set of the Dawn of the Wolf books, and is so excited she’s nearly jumping off the table to throw herself into your arms. “How did you know I wanted this one? I’ve been looking for these!”

“Lucky guess,” you say, but she’s mentioned them half a dozen times since the final movie came out in theaters, and they’ve been sitting in the back of your closet for months.

Sarah chooses one of Tess’s gifts next, unearthing a glittering princess tiara. And though Sarah has never once in her life been much of a princess girl (with the singular exception of Mulan), she smiles anyway and says. “Thank you, Tess. It’s very pretty.”

But then proceeds to turn to you, eyes wide and brows raised. She lowers her tone and asks, “Momma, do I have to wear this?”

You try not to laugh. Really, you do. But a snort comes out anyway and you can feel Joel’s pointed stare as you gently take the tiara from Sarah’s hands. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do, baby.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between everyone, but you don’t care. Not when Sarah’s relief is physical and instantaneous, shoulders dropping as she’s unburdened by the sudden expectation. 

“Alright, mine next,” Joel interjects. He hands her a white gift bag that has silver stars on it and she’s tearing into it the moment she can, discarding the tissue paper into the growing pile beside her. 

She gasps as she pulls out the Dawn of the Wolf movie set. Blu-ray discs, even. Every one of them all wrapped up in clear cellophane packaging with a limited edition poster inside.

It’s an uncoordinated gift. As much a surprise to you as it is to her.

That feeling of longing rears its persistent head again, because you miss that harmony you once had. The two of you used to exist together not as two separate people but as an extension of each other.

You used to be so close. He used to be more than your husband, more than the father of your child—Joel was your best friend.

And seeing that harmony you once possessed displayed in such a clear, tangible way, completely unprompted? It has emotion welling up in your throat.

Sarah opens the remainder of her gifts. From Tess, all pink princess-themed dresses and skirts and things that will rot at the back of her closet. But Sarah grimaces and says thank you through it all. 

Tommy’s gift comes last. And thank god for it—because the moment he pulls it from the back of Joel’s truck, Sarah forgets all about princess tiaras and Dawn of the Wolf. 

“Oh my God! Are you serious?! This is mine?! Uncle Tommy!”

Everyone watches with toothy grins as he passes her an electric guitar. The body is glittering teal with an ivory fretboard, child sized to accommodate her eleven year old hands.

It’s the very same one that hangs in the window of the music shop downtown. The one she eyes every time Joel takes her there to pick up a fresh set of strings. 

Tommy laughs and kneels down in front of her. “Now, I know your old man ain’t cool enough to rock n’ roll. But he can get you started teachin’ you the basics on his old man guitar, hm?”

Sarah giggles and turns to give Joel the widest smile. “Dad! It’s called an old man guitar? You told me it was called an acoustic!”

It makes everyone laugh, and your heart swells in your chest. So overwhelmingly full with love and affection you fear it might burst. The sun is shining and your baby is safe and happy and healthy and Tommy’s making stupid jokes and Joel has his hand splayed on the small of your back.

The touch is grounding. Not inherently intimate, just…affectionate. Filled with the type of love that warms you but burns around the edges.

You lean into his side out of pure instinct, and when he rests his cheek on the top of your head, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him.

And it would be so easy. Just to tilt your head back, to smile and press your lips to his. Quick, but full of all the words left unsaid; I love you, and I always have, and I always will.

But you can feel Tess and her heavy stare from across the yard. And when you meet her eyes, you’re surprised to find no trace of resentment there. No anger, no fury. Just…understanding. And perhaps a bit of sadness, too.

Tess was also newly divorced when she met Joel, you know. A quick friendship that had slowly evolved into more. You wonder now, for the very first time, what it must be like for her. How it felt to watch you interact with Joel, how it felt each and every time your jealousy ran a little wild, how much strength it must have taken her to never respond to your cruelty with the same energy.

Guilt slithers like a python between your ribs as you come to the realization that she’s just trying to figure all this out, too. The same way you are.

Tommy helps Sarah lift the guitar strap over her shoulder. And the moment it’s secure, she’s running up to you and Joel and all but begging him to teach her to play a song.

And Joel obliges, of course. Grabs the acoustic guitar he’d hand-made out of spruce wood years ago and within a few short minutes, they’re sitting side by side on the back porch. The sight of them brings a kind of peace to your heart that feels indescribable.

You slip soundlessly inside to start cleaning up. Picking up the empty dishes and half-filled glasses from the table and carrying them to the sink in the kitchen.

Tess saddles up to your side with a hand towel and an easy smile. “Want some help?”

When your brows furrow, it’s on instinct. A knee-jerk reaction. You think about the words that threaten to spill from behind your teeth. More cruelty, more short words. No, I don’t need your help. I’ve got it handled.

But then you remember the way she’d looked at you and think better of it. Swallow down your dislike and instead say, “Uhm. Yeah…sure. Thank you.”

You turn on the warm water and lather the sponge in that god-awful dollar store dish soap he’s been buying since you left.

Tess doesn’t speak. Not right away. She just takes the washed and rinsed dish from your hand when you offer it to her and dries it in silence. She moves around the kitchen with a familiar sort of ease that would bother you.

Well. It does bother you. Because once this was your kitchen, too. You who decided which cabinet to put the cups in. You who organized the spices. You who picked out the stainless steel stove. Your kitchen. Your house. Your husband.

But you try not to let it show. Because she doesn’t deserve to be punished for what was ultimately a decision you made. And she’s never crossed any boundaries. Has always been good to your daughter. Good to Joel.

“You’re a great mom,” she suddenly says, sticking a dry plate on top of the existing stack in the cupboard. “You’re definitely that girl’s favorite person in the whole world.”

As sweet as the sentiment is, it makes you snort. “I think today it might be Uncle Tommy who’s her favorite.”

Tess smiles, but shakes her head. “Nah. She talks about you like you put the stars in the sky,” she explains. And then her voice gets a little lighter, as she says, “You know, the first time I met her the three of us went out for ice cream. And you wanna know the first thing she said to me?”

You’d known about the ice cream and about Sarah meeting Tess. Joel had introduced the two of you months prior, and refused to even tell Sarah about Tess without your explicit consent. As much as you hated it at the time, it had been handled with respect. But Joel had never given details, just said that it had gone well. That it seemed like Sarah had fun. “What did she say?”

“We sat at that picnic table and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘my mommy smells way better than you.’”

A crease forms between your brows and you turn to face Tess with a disbelieving look on your face. “She what?”

There’s a certain amusement in her voice when she responds. “Yep. And she was probably right, anyhow. I was working at a restaurant at the time and probably smelled like garlic aioli.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you. It truly is unintentional. But imagining those words in Sarah’s pretty, sweet voice sends you over the edge.

But Tess is laughing, too. Which is some small comfort. “And then she proceeded to tell me how much you liked that perfume Joel got you for Christmas and stood up on the bench and gave me a whole run-down about how you spray it. So that I could smell better, too.”

You can just imagine the way Joel’s face would’ve gone tomato red, embarrassed and in public no less. “You’re joking.”

Tess shakes her head. “Nope. I swear. Neck, chest, and the insides of your wrists. Right?”

You hand her the last dish and rinse the soap from the sink. “Uhm, yeah. In that order exactly. She’s…god. I’m so sorry. She’s something else.”

She waves your apology away with a quick hand. “Oh, it’s fine. Kids never have a filter at that age. I thought it was hilarious, actually.” She puts the final dish away and drapes the hand towel over the cabinet door beneath the sink.

There’s more she wants to say, but she hesitates. And this new ease you’ve created feels precarious, so you’re not sure if you should urge her or stay silent.

But after a few moments, she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. Her eyes are averted, staring only at the linoleum floor. And then she says, “I only say this because I want you to know even though Tommy got her a guitar and Joel’s going to teach her how to play it, it’s you she keeps a framed photo of on her nightstand when she stays here.”

Emotion chokes you. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but you try your damndest to swallow it down. You don’t want to cry, not here. Not in front of Tess. And not on Sarah’s birthday.

“The only person in the world who even comes close is Joel,” Tess continues. “And Joel and I…we have a lot in common. One of those things being that we’re both still stupidly in love with the person who left us.”

You try to blink away the moisture in your eyes, but it feels useless now. “Tess.”

The word comes out as a warning. One she doesn’t heed. 

“Joel’s a good man,” she says. “He’s a good man, and he loves nothing more than you and that little girl. And I can see it in you, too. The love that’s there. The kind that never, ever goes away. I don’t want…” she sighs. Shakes her head and tries again. “You deserve good things. And I’m glad you saw that you deserved more and stood your ground because Sarah is watching everything you do. And one day, when she’s in the same situation, she will look back and know exactly what choice to make. But I think it’s important to show her that love does exist. And sometimes…sometimes all it needs is a second chance.”

Your breaths feel uneven. Thready and labored. You don’t know what to say or what to do or how to react. Your ex husband’s girlfriend is standing here, encouraging you to forgive him. Not for you or for him but for Sarah.

It all feels heavy. Too heavy.

And all you can muster up the courage to say is, “Thank you, Tess. I…I appreciate you.”

“I’m only saying to you what I wish someone would say to my ex husband.” She gives you a soft smile. One that comes from a place of womanhood, of a sameness that can’t be manufactured. And then she clears her throat and squeezes your shoulder and says, “I’m, uh—gonna go ahead and sneak out. Thank you for letting me celebrate with her, too.”

You wait.

Wait until she walks away. Until she grabs her keys from the table. Until you hear the front door shut. Until you hear her car tires groan against the gravel in the driveway.

And then the tears are falling fast down your cheeks. Marring your skin and leaving wet streaks behind.

Because Tess is right. Or at least you want her to be.

You would give anything, anything, to feel whole again. To have that pretty ring on your finger and to fall asleep in the same bed and wake up to Sarah wriggling her way between you. To make coffee in the mornings and hear Joel tease you about the amount of creamer you use. To throw his laundry in with yours and file your taxes together again and hold his hand over the center console on a late night drive.

All it needs is a second chance.

When the sliding glass door opens, you turn towards the sink and frantically wipe the tears away from your face. You don’t want Sarah to see you crying一she always takes longer to recover from your tears than you yourself do.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” 

Relief floods you when you hear Tommy’s voice. He closes the door behind him and as soon as you turn to face him, he’s crossing the kitchen in four strides. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Don’t look fine to me. What happened? Why’re you cryin’?” He holds your shoulders, keeping you at arms length. “And where the fuck is Tess? Did she say somethin’ to you?”

There’s an underlying venom in his voice you know all too well. The kind that slips out when he’s gotten too drunk or when someone gets disrespectful to a woman in front of him. Protective to a fault.

You shake your head. “Tommy, no. It wasn’t like that. She was actually being…” you laugh, but it comes out bitterly. “She was really fucking nice. I’m just…”

His gaze is hard as he asks, “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t care what you and Joel got goin’ on, you’re still my baby sister. Someone made you cry. All you gotta do is say the word. Still talk to this girl from high school an’ she fights mean. I’ll call her up right now.”

This time when you laugh, it's more genuine. “Tommy,” you chastise. “Jesus, no. It wasn’t like that, okay? I swear. Relax.”

He searches your face, but ultimately nods and takes a step back. “Just don’t like seein’ you cry,” he admits.

And it softens your heart, because you get it. Understand what it’s like to love someone like a sibling even without sharing an ounce of blood. 

You’d seen Tommy on the worst days and on his best days. You’ve seen him cry and seen him laugh. Made sure he had a good meal every night and socks without holes in them in the mornings. Kept his secrets and gave him dating advice and bailed him out of jail a time or two.

It had been you who’d held his hand the whole way home after he was discharged from the combat zone of Desert Storm.

Tommy has become an integral part of your life. A piece you’d been terrified of losing in the divorce, only to discover your fears had been blessedly in vain.

“It was about Joel,” you admit, sniffling. Quiet and timid, feeling out of step with yourself. Unsure in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

Tommy sighs. “You wanna talk about it?”

He asks carefully. Not pushing, only concerned. And you trust Tommy, maybe more than anyone on the planet, because he has no motivation when it comes to you. So, for once, you say exactly what’s on your mind. “I still love him. I think I always will. But at what point is it disrespectful to myself if I go back? If we just repeat the same old habits, if I spend my days alone again, I…God. What would that look like to Sarah? Would it set this example that it’s okay to accept half-assed love? To go back to someone who you begged for months to just…to just be there. To come home when he promised he would. I deserve that, Tommy.”

“You do,” he agrees easily. 

“I just don’t know…I don’t know. How can I tell if things will be different? How do I take that risk and should I? If I go back, wouldn’t this all have been for nothing? I put Sarah through all of this for nothing?”

He sighs heavily, worry on his face. “You want my opinion or you just wanna get it all out?”

“Your opinion,” you say. Because your brain feels all scrambled and chaotic and Tommy has never once lied to you.

“Joel would take the risk on you,” he says with a shrug. Simple. Honest. A clean cut blow straight to your still beating heart.

And the worst part is that you know he’s right. 

“You know he went to therapy? That first year.” Tommy laughs. “Joel. Went to therapy. Could hardly believe it. An’ he complained about it every damn week, but he still showed up. I think he tried to be…better. You know? For you.”

It’s the first and only time you and Tommy ever talk about Joel and the things he did right after your divorce. You never wanted to involve him. Never wanted him to get caught in the crossfire.

But you find yourself glad you’re doing it now. Thankful for the honesty, no matter how much it hurts to hear it. “I…I didn’t know that. He never told me. Thank you, Tommy. For always being there for me. And for Sarah, too.”

His lips curl into that same toothy grin that your daughter inherited. “Course,” he says. “S’what I’m here for. And, hey一don’t sweat it so much. Things will turn out the way they’re supposed to. They always do, right?”

You nod, and he wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders. You lean into his embrace and let him pull you to the sliding glass door and back outside. Sarah and Joel are both so occupied in the moment they don’t even look up at you.

Joel’s got one hand on the neck of his guitar while the other is adjusting Sarah’s fingers on the fretboard of hers. 

You look up at Tommy and ask, “How long do you think ‘til she’s ready for cake?”

He snorts. “Oh, you’ve got an hour. At least.”

It ends up taking two.

But you don’t mind. You just sit on the porch steps and watch the two of them. Sarah’s eager to learn, and Joel is a patient teacher. He answers all of her questions and gives her tips and pointers and even promises to find a pink guitar pick just for her.

When Joel asks what song she wants to learn first, Sarah smiles excitedly and answers, “We have to play My Girl!”

The moment she says it, Joel casts his eyes to you and your heart pinches tight. And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s reliving the same memories you are.

Those late nights right after Sarah was born when she would cry and cry until Joel sang her softly back to sleep. The times he’d sing it to her even when she was older, dancing around the kitchen while she climbed on his back.

The memories that came even before Sarah. The first time he ever sang it to you, after he’d had one too many beers and you’d had to put him to bed. The time it had come on the radio in his truck and he’d pulled over to dance with you in the middle of a field of wheat. 

And on your wedding night, where you’d been so painfully in love that you barely registered the small group of family and friends around you. 

Because Joel had held you tight and kissed your forehead and sang the lyrics softly in your ear. His beard had ticked your skin, and your face had gone all hot, but you’d never been happier than you were at that very moment. Married to the man you loved, surrounded by people who cared about you, and a beautiful baby growing in your belly.

Of course that’s the song she would choose.

It takes her only forty minutes to learn the first verse. 

She quits only when the sun begins to set, and makes Joel pinky swear to practice with her tomorrow.

Tommy lights the candles on her cake, and everyone sings happy birthday around the table. She clings to you the entire time. Arm intertwined with yours, leaning heavily into your side, face pressed to your belly.

Sarah makes a wish and blows out the flame and asks Joel if he can put on a movie while they eat. He suggests Curtis and Viper, but Sarah won’t hear of it. 

She’s tearing open her new blu-ray box set of Dawn of the Wolf with vanilla frosting still sticking to her fingers.

And for the entirety of the first movie, she sits between you and Joel on the couch. Her head is in your lap and her feet are in his, and it feels good.

It feels like home. 

Tommy leaves when the credits roll. And Sarah jumps up to give him a too-tight bear hug and thanks him a million times for her guitar and swears that she’ll be concert ready by the following weekend. 

But when she sees you grabbing your jacket from the rack by the door, her face falls. “Can we please stay here tonight? Just for my birthday!” 

It breaks your heart into a million tiny pieces. Not only the request itself but the way she says it. Full of hope and love, like it doesn’t even register to her that the request might be too much for you to handle.

You think about Tess’s words and you think about your tears from earlier and you think about Joel. 

When your eyes find his, they’re full of melancholy. He carries this deep, pensive longing that has lingered there for years, and you start to wonder if it’ll ever go away. 

He shrugs. “I don’t mind. But it’s your week, so it’s your call.”

“Please, mom! Please, please, please!” 

You don’t think you’d be able to say no to her if you tried.

When you sigh, Sarah knows it’s over. She jumps in excitement and spins around the room and requests that Joel make popcorn before you start the second movie, to which he immediately obliges. 

Tommy hugs you tight before he goes. Kisses your temple and says, “You’re tough, little sister. Trust your gut. And Christ, girl. Give yourself some credit every now and again. You’re doing great.”

“Thanks for coming, Tommy,” you mutter. “We love you. And text me when you get home safe or I’ll have your ass.”

He chuckles low and you close the door behind him, leaving you in the silence of the living room. In the distance, you can hear Joel and Sarah in the kitchen. 

She’s talking excitedly about all the songs she wants to learn. You can hear the smile on Joel’s face as he utters words of encouragement. The kernels pop and the scent of salt and butter begins to drift into the living room, and you’re trying to stay strong. 

Really, you are. But it would be so fucking easy to just…to come home. 

And not in the sense of moving back into this house and dedicating every Saturday night to movies and popcorn. Home—like coming back to Joel.

You swallow hard and busy yourself setting up the next movie. Ejecting one disc and replacing it with the next. Skipping through all the previews and adjusting the volume, flipping off the overhead light and turning on the wax warmer in the corner that looks like it hasn’t been used since the day you’d left. 

When you’re done, you make your way to the kitchen and interject their popcorn process only to tell Sarah, “Why don’t you go upstairs and get your pajamas on before we start?”

“But, mom. I’m not gonna fall asleep. Can’t I do it after?”

You and Joel exchange a look—both fully aware that she’ll be out like a light before the twenty minute mark.

He smiles and nudges Sarah. “G’on. Listen to your momma.” 

She does so begrudgingly, her footfalls heavy up the stairs and down the hall to her room. 

Joel turns off the heat on the stove and pulls down the big plastic bowl from the top shelf. The one you picked out all those years ago. He glances at you over his shoulder and asks, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

You know better than to lie. Not to Joel. Who has always seen right through you. Who knows you better than anyone else on the planet.

And what would you say, anyway? That you’re not sure what you want anymore, that you miss him but you’re terrified of accepting any less than what you deserve? That it hurts to see him with someone else, that it hurts even more that she’s nice?

When you answer, the words come out short and clipped. Not aggressive, just…tired. “Let’s just get through the night, Joel.”

You leave the kitchen and return to the couch, relieved to hear Sarah bounding back down the stairs. She smiles when she sees you and it eases the strain on your heart if only a little. 

She climbs up beside you and leans into your embrace when you hug her tight to your side. “Thanks for everything, mommy,” she murmurs, cheek smooshed to your arm. “I had the best day ever.”

You kiss the top of her head and thank the universe or god or whoever’s listening for sending you the most perfect daughter. For giving you a reason to prioritize your own heart. “You’re so welcome, sweet girl. Happy birthday.”

Joel comes to sit on her other side, popcorn bowl in hand. “Ready?”

She’s shoveling popcorn into her mouth before you can even hit play. 

And twenty minutes later? She’s got her head on Joel’s shoulder, and there’s a buttery kernel still in her hand, and she’s snoring so loud the sound echoes in the room. 

You look at Joel, and he’s wearing this grin that you think you haven’t seen in a while, and you have to cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing hard enough you wake her. 

“Christ,” Joel says. “S’like she’s sawin’ logs in her sleep.”

“Between Ellie’s last night and soccer practice this morning, I knew she’d crash hard. And I think Tommy gave her a bunch of candy on the way over.”

“Oh, he definitely did. Found three bags of peach rings in the trash,” he tells you with a light hearted chuckle. He shifts carefully, tucking one arm beneath her head and the other beneath her knees. “I’ll go tuck her in.”

You nod, and the moment you’re left alone in the silence you’re finding your way back to the kitchen. Cleaning up the scattered mess from the day, trying to busy your hands and quiet the turmoil in your head. 

When you collect all the torn wrapping paper and cellophane packaging and discard it, you move on to wiping down the countertops. 

Joel doesn’t say anything when he enters the kitchen soundlessly, but you can feel his presence as if he were an extension of your heart. 

He leans against the archway and presses his thumb into his palm. “You’ve always done that, you know,” he says. 

Without turning to look at him, scrubbing at a stubborn water ring, you ask, “Done what?”

“Start cleanin’ when you’re tryin’ to work somethin’ out in that head of yours.”

You pause, hand freezing, washcloth still clutched tight between your fingers. 

“You remember Sarah’s first day of kindergarten?” He huffs. “Spent the whole day cleaning the baseboards with a damn toothbrush.”

The memory comes back to you the moment he says it. Joel had spent that night working lotion into your chemical-dried palms, skin sore and taut from prolonged exposure to the cleaner you’d used.

“And when she sprained her ankle jumpin’ off the swings at the park, you rented one of those big dumpsters that weekend and threw out all that junk in the garage.”

The more he speaks, the more memories surface that serve to validate his claim. You leave the water stain be, and toss the cloth into the empty sink. “I guess you're right,” you say, trying to laugh it off. To keep things as lighthearted as possible.

But then he says, “I should’ve noticed it. That last week, right before…right before you left.”

The anguish in his words makes your gut twist. Because Tess is right, Joel is a good man. Perfect for you in nearly every way. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone, and you hate seeing him like this. Hate even more that you’re the cause of it.

“Was comin’ home every night and the entire house was spotless,” he says somberly. “Knew there was somethin’ going on, just…didn’t think it was…that.”

Emotion rises up in you. Thick and hot in the back of your head, making your ears ring. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, stepping fully into the kitchen now. He lowers himself into a chair at the table and answers easily, “Anything. You know that.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to therapy?”

You expect him to sigh. To shift uncomfortably or avoid the question altogether. But he doesn’t do any of that. He just says, “I thought about it. About tellin’ you. But, uh…guess I just supposed that when you came home to me, it had to be because you wanted to. Not ‘cause of somethin’ I was doing.”

The words shatter what remains of your resolve. “Is that what you think? That I haven’t come home because I didn’t want to?”

He shakes his head. “No, I…I know it’s because of…well. Me. An’ workin’ all the time and everything. Not makin’ the time for you an’ Sarah the way a man ought to. The way a dad and a husband ought to. But I haven’t missed anything in the last three years, have I?”

You try to recall all the events that have passed since the separation. All of the parent teacher conferences and birthdays and doctors appointments and soccer games and art shows. 

“Even when you put that hole in the wall of your apartment, tryin’ to move furniture around. Scared about gettin’ the deposit back, so you called me,” he says. “An’ I came, baby. Didn’t I?”

Those stubborn tears return again, pooling in the corners of your eyes. Quietly, you admit, “Yeah, you did.”

“There ain’t a day that goes by I don’t regret losin’ you.”

“God, Joel.” Your voice cracks when you say his name. 

And that’s all it takes before he’s standing to his feet and closing the distance between you, the instinct to soothe your discomfort deeply ingrained. “Hey,” he says, squeezing your fingers in one hand and tilting your face up with the other. “Why’re you cryin’? Talk to me.”

You shake your head. “I just…I miss this. Having movie nights and making popcorn and carrying Sarah up to bed. I miss coordinating birthday gifts and not just co-parenting but parenting together. I miss being here and I miss you, Joel.”

His eyes soften, and he gently drags the back of his knuckles across your cheek. “Then come home, baby,” Joel says.

As if there isn't a risk of hurting Sarah even further than the damage that’s already been done. As if he doesn’t have a partner who’s kind, who cares about Sarah in the only way she knows how. As if it was simple.

“I wish it were that easy,” you murmur, leaning into the palm of his hand.

“Tell me what you need,” Joel says, voice a little breathy now. “Just tell me. Talk to me. I’ll do anything you want, baby, anything.”

“I love you, Joel. That’s never changed and it never, ever will. But how do I trust you again? How do I know that you’ll be there? How do I know things won’t go back to the way they were? That we’ll settle back into a routine and then you’ll leave me here, raising our little girl alone?” You shake your head. “I can’t do that again. I can’t. I won’t.”

He folds his big arms around you and pulls you close to his chest. Holds you tight enough that it feels like he’s holding you together. “You won’t have to,” he says. “I swear. I’ll spend every day I’ve got left proving it to you. But you gotta let me in, baby. You’ve gotta let me fix it.”

“If I do come home, how confusing is that for Sarah? I mean, God. Haven’t we fucked things up enough? What if I come home and then it still doesn't work and一?”

Joel pulls away just enough to see you and shakes his head. “We’ll go slow, alright? We don’t have to tell her unless you’re ready. No reason to make things more complicated than they have to be,” he says. “And Sarah’s strong. She’s like her mom in that way.”

He’s saying everything you want to hear and you feel yourself unraveling fast. “And what about Tess?”

“She’ll understand, because she knows I’m yours,” Joel answers. “Yours.”

And then, without any warning, he carefully lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

His fingers curl tight around your hips, and everything feels hot and overwhelming and your breath gets caught in your lungs. He presses a kiss to your belly in the same place Sarah rests her head and you feel suddenly like crying again. “Joel.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” he insists. “Anything, baby. Please. Please come home to me.”

And all you can think at that moment is, why haven’t you come home sooner?

You thread your hands through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Your tears are falling freely now for the second time today but this time it’s different. Lighter. Like a breath of fresh air, tears of relief instead of turmoil.

“I love you,” Joel says, slipping his hands beneath your top and running his rough palms over your smooth curves. “Please, baby. Please. I need you.”

Your longing has become something else entirely now. A beast in your heart that’s grown teeth and sharpened claws, tearing apart every last defense you’ve so carefully built to keep him at arms length. When you speak, the word is a broken surrender in your mouth. “Okay.”

Joel freezes. “Oh…kay?” His brows furrow and you can feel his hesitance now. Unsure of himself, pulling away but so clearly wanting to touch you more. 

You cover his hands with your own, keeping them in place, pressing them more firmly against your ribs. “Okay,” you repeat. “I want to come home.”

In the fifteen years you’ve known Joel Miller, you’ve never once seen him relax as much as he does the moment you say those words. His shoulders slump, the tension in his face dissipates, the tightness bleeds from his limbs.

And then he lets out this long held sigh, shoulders shaking with it. He lifts the hem of your shirt with his hands and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your navel. “Thank you,” he says, and you know he means it.

He kisses you again, a little higher this time, and it ignites a flame low in your abdomen. Makes you feel suddenly warm and tingly all over. Makes you miss him in an entirely different way. His hands are rough and his eyes are glassy when he looks up at you through dark lashes.

“I love you,” he says. Soft. Gentle. But real. Not the sentiment you’re always giving him; the half-empty meaning. A way to say you care, but not like you used to. 

When Joel says it, it’s different. It’s all consuming. Nothing distant or safe about it.

“I love you so fucking much, baby. Please let me show you. Please.”

You nod without hesitation. Knowing what comes next, knowing the last step in your decision is giving yourself over entirely. Mind and body alike, becoming two souls bound together again, the way you used to be, the way you always should’ve been. You know he needs this, but maybe not as much as you need it.

Joel thumbs open the button on your jeans and carefully一oh, so carefully一tugs down the zipper. He watches you the whole time like you’re going to suddenly change your mind, like you haven’t wanted his touch every moment of every day for three years. Longer, even. 

He kisses the satin lining of your panties with a reverent mouth, and then he’s pulling them off with your jeans. Over the swell of your hips and down your thighs. You anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and Joel helps you step out of them completely. 

With a contented sigh, he presses his forehead to the space between your ribs. Inhales deep and then kisses your pubic bone. “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Another kiss, lower this time, right above your clit. Like it’s muscle memory. Like relearning you will take no time at all. 

His hands slide up the back of your thighs and palm at the swell of your ass. “Spread your legs for me,” he says. And the moment you do, Joel’s got his head between them and his tongue swiping through the gathering wetness there. 

It feels like heaven. His mouth is warm and soft and he knows just where to lick and where to suck and where to bite. He’s hungry for it. Equally as starved. He groans low against you and you can feel the vibration of it down to your toes. “Oh my god.”

His tongue laves over your clit in long, smooth strokes. It’s full of purpose and worship and adoration. When he pulls away to speak, he takes the opportunity to wedge his hand between your thighs. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, gently pressing his middle finger inside of you. He adds another, his ring finger this time, still adorned with the titanium band you’d picked out years ago. “I’m so, so fucking sorry that I hurt you.”

Joel curls his fingers inside of you at the same moment his warm, apologetic tongue finds your clit again. The intensity of it makes you lose your balance, leaning back against the counter, hands scrambling to find purchase. A whimper escapes you, pleasure ratcheting higher and higher with each practiced, wet flick of his tongue between your folds.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Missed you so much, sweetheart. An’ s’okay if you don’t wanna admit it, but I know you missed me, too. Hm?”

Your chest squeezes tight. Because it’s true, it’s true, and you’re starting to feel delirious between the pleasure his sweet mouth brings and the sugar that pours from his tongue. You want it to be real so badly that you tremble. “God, Joel.”

“Shh,” he hums. “Don’t think so hard. Just feel. Feel me, baby. Feel what I do to you. Feel how much you love me.”

Christ. You do. You love him. You always have. And even when you decide to love yourself more, what you feel for Joel has always lived beneath your skin. A fire you’ve spent so long trying to put out, and you’re just now realizing you’ve only been stoking the flames.

Keeping them steady until now, until you return to him. And his mouth is like gasoline to the flames of your heart. Sweet words, sugary tongue. Honey poured in your ear, everything you’ve longed for all these years.

You feel your release approaching fast, but Joel does, too. He pulls away the moment his name leaves your mouth, but it’s only for long for him to lift you onto the counter and to spread your legs far enough to house the width of his hips. 

“Wanna feel you, baby,” he mutters, kissing the hollow of your throat. His breath is hot against your prickled skin, his words and lips both desperate. Needier than you’ve ever seen him, and you understand because you feel it, too.

“Promise me,” you say, words breathless, greedily swallowing up his oxygen. “Promise me you mean it. Promise me you’ll never pull this shit again.” 

Joel leans back. Cradles your face in his hands like he holds divinity. And maybe, to him, you are divine. His god given solace.

His wife.

“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding firm, eyes locked with yours. “Everything I am, baby. Everything. S’yours. I’m all yours. I promise.” He kisses you hard, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. “Let me in, baby. Let me come home.”

Home. Home, home一yours is here, with him and with Sarah in this house he built for you. And Joel’s home is you. In the confines of your soft heart.

Your hands find the back of his neck, nails scratching against the skin. And then you find yourself nodding, giving into it completely, flames of lust transformed now into a cleansing ritual, burning away all the hurt and resentment. “I love you,” you say, and he presses his forehead to yours with tears in his eyes.

Joel lets out a long sigh, and then unbuckles his belt. Pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to let his cock spring free. He holds it in his hands and you watch as he strokes it once, and then twice.

You wrap your legs around his waist and lean back just a little, just enough to make it easier for him as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes inside with a shaky groan. 

The stretch aches in the best way, and you focus on each inch as it disappears inside of you while Joel watches you. His beautiful girl.

He fucks you hard. He splays one of his big hands on the small of your back, holding you steady as his hips crash into yours. There’s intent behind each thrust. A deep, satisfying reminder that you belong together. That you’re his and he’s yours. 

With his free hand, he rests it over your belly, low enough to gently stroke your clit with his thumb. “You feel me, baby? You feel me right here?” 

“Fuck,” you cry out, fingernails leaving indentations on his skin as you cling to him. “God, Joel. Feels so good, so fucking一god.”

“I know, I know,” he soothes. He kisses you gently this time, a stark contrast to the way his cock splits you apart, pressing hard against that sweet spot inside of you. “I’ve got you. Won’t ever let you down again, baby. You’re my girl an’ I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

It’s all too much. His desperate thrusts, his thumb on your clit, his tongue in your mouth, his sweet words in your ear. You’re unravelling even faster this time, ears ringing, skin heating. “Joel, please. I’m close, I’m so一”

“Give it to me,” he says. “Come for me. Wanna feel just how bad you missed this, sweetheart.” 

Release comes fast. Hot and with unexpected strength. Your vision blurs and your limbs tremble around him. Joel slots his wet mouth against yours, swallowing up your moans, taking everything from you that you’re willing to give.

You can feel his pace falter and his brows knit together as he nears the summit. And when you feel the pressure of his hands begin to lighten, you know his intent. But you hold firm, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him in even deeper. “Inside me, Joel, please,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

He groans low the moment you say it and buries himself to the hilt, spilling himself deep inside you. Joel stays like that the whole time, only moving the smallest bit, filling you up until he’s spent and twitching. “Christ,” he hisses. “Love you so much, baby. Don’t you ever leave me again.”

The come down is slow. Unhurried. He stays inside you until his cock softens, peppering gentle kisses across your face. He traces the curves of your jaw and your brow bone with his fingertips as if he’d forgotten the way it feels to touch you and wants to remember. 

When he does finally pull back, his hands still hold you. Fingers laced through yours while he gathers your jeans from the floor. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go on up to bed.”

You don’t argue. You just let him do what he needs to. Let him hold your hand the whole way up. Let him carefully take off your shirt and unclasp your bra once you close the bedroom door behind you. He pulls one of his t-shirts from the closet and tugs it over your head, kissing your forehead right after. 

Once he changes out of his clothes, discarding everything but his boxers, Joel crawls into bed beside you and pulls you close to his chest. You kiss his warm skin, right over his heart, and close your eyes.

But you can still feel his gaze as it lingers on the side of your face, and when you open your eyes to look at him, he wears this lovesick smile. You ask playfully, “You gonna stay up all night?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits. “Just like holdin’ you is all. Like seein’ you here. With me.”

You snuggle into him, warming your chilled fingers against his soft belly. “Get some rest, Joel. I’ll still be here in the morning, okay? I promise.”

He kisses you again and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. His voice is soft. The word broken but tender in his mouth as he says, “Okay.”

When you fall asleep, it’s to the sound of Joel’s soft snores beside you and Sarah’s echoed down the hallway.

You rest easy that night, without an ounce of regret. Feeling relieved in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever feel again. 

And when you wake up the next morning, the sun streams in through the half-pulled blinds. You carefully sneak out of bed, pull on a clean pair of his boxers, and pad barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sarah’s already up. She’s got a record spinning at a low volume, and she’s dancing around the kitchen listening to Pearl Jam. There’s pale powder in one of her eyebrows. It’s spilled across the countertop, too. And in her small hands is a metal mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.

She’s trying to make pancakes you realize, and your heart suddenly aches. Because she seems so grown up at this moment. No longer your sweet and silly girl who needs help washing her hands before dinner, more and more independent every day.

The fear crosses your mind that you are the reason she’s so mature for her age. That the separation is what made her take on this too-adult role.

But then she pauses her mixing to pick up the hand towel off the counter. She stares at herself in the distorted reflection of the metal bowl, and sets the towel over her little shoulder.

The exact same way that you do when you’re cooking dinner for her every night.

You suddenly see exactly what Tess was talking about. Sarah’s not trying to be mature or take on an adult role because she feels the need to.

She’s trying to be just like you.

Sarah picks up the bowl again and turns, eyes glowing when she notices your presence. “Mama! Good morning! I’m making pancakes!”

You laugh softly and come to her side. “I see that,” you say. “Want some help?”

“Yes, please. I’m bad at mixing.” 

With a shake of your head, you gently take the bowl from her hand and place it on the counter. “You’re doing a great job, sweet girl. Just need to add a little more water, see?” You turn the faucet on and add the smallest bit and hand the bowl back to her. “Now try.”

She does, and her smile grows as the batter begins to come together and smooth out. “There’s coffee, too. Uncle Tommy showed me how to start it.”

You turn to see the pot full, and giggle as you wonder how exactly that conversation had come about. Likely from the times Joel got up too late to start it, leaving Tommy without caffeine for god knows how long. “Thank you, baby girl,” you say. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Sarah beams at the praise. And when you pull two mugs from the cupboard, she stops you. “Dad will only use the owl one,” she says, nodding to the dishwasher. 

You follow her gaze, open the dishwasher, and quickly find the exact mug she’s talking about. It’s a poorly-made ceramic project you’d given to him for Christmas years ago. You were taking a pottery class with a friend, and the mug was the one and only thing you’d made that didn’t turn out so wobbly that it was unusable.

The edges were still a little bent and it sat on the table leaning just a little to the left, but Joel had insisted it was perfect. 

You hold it gently in your hands, fingers running over the owl you’d spent hours painting into its side. “The only one he’ll use, huh?”

Sarah nods. “He says it’s special to him ‘cause you made it. Maybe you could teach me how to make stuff too! We could make Uncle Tommy one!”

You promise her you will. Tell her you’ll find a place in town that offers classes and that you’ll go to one together. And then you fill the mug with coffee, climb the stairs, and set it on Joel’s nightstand. 

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and gently shake him awake. He smiles when he sees you. Gives you the same crooked smile your daughter inherited, and it makes you feel loved and warm all over.

“Mornin’ baby.”

“You meant it, didn’t you? Your promise?”

Joel reaches for your hand and holds it tight. “I meant it,” he tells you. “An’ I know it’s hard to trust me now, but I’ll spend every day tryin’ to prove it to you.”

“Good,” you say. “‘Cause I think…I think Sarah and I are coming home.”