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"But you can always come to me, even if I'm tired." You replied softly, finally looking at your son again. 

"We know but..." James lowered his voice, "I think Rose needs space. She's not herself at the moment, she's grumpy all the time and snappy."

Rose had changed since the divorce, and it wasn't a surprise;  divorces have major effects on children and their development, but she was changing in other ways, too. Before the divorce, her body shape had slowly started changing, and she went through a growth spurt, making her the tallest in her class. Her clear skin slowly began to become oily and a cluster of acne formed on her T Zone and cheeks.

You knew this change was coming when your daughter would change from a girl into a woman, and suddenly, her increased mood swings and shifts in emotions made more sense.

You nodded, "Okay, well, can you get the others rounded up? Grandma will be here any moment for Hope, but I need you guys to get on that bus, okay?" 

James nodded, "Sure." 

"Thank you," you smiled, quickly pulling him into a hug before he walked off, your chin resting on his full head of hair, "I know how hard this has all been for you. To adjust to so many things.. and you have no idea how proud I am of you." 

James pulled away, mirroring your smile, "Someone has gotta be a man around here." He murmured, getting the kids rounded up.

Rose was curled up in her bed surrounded by pillows and plush toys from her dad that she couldn't bring herself to part with yet, her eyes half open, burning into the posters on her wall. 

"Rose?" you knocked on her bedroom door lightly, "James told me you weren't feeling well, do you need me to stay home today? I can call in sick."

Rose dragged herself to the door, slowly opening it a crack, her eyes red. "You've been at that job less time than we've been in this house; you need to go in, Mom. Grandma can always check in on me."

You were startled by her eyes, "A-Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Rose hesitates for a moment before closing the door, "Could I borrow some more of those maternity pads you never used? I took a few of them in the middle of the night." she said a little shyly, "I think I've started my period. I was up all night with the cramps and all the blood; it hurts so bad, like I'm dying."

"You don't need to ask, sweetheart, you should've told me sooner. Tell you what, why don't I leave the pads outside your door before I head off, and whilst I'm at work, you send me a text on anything you want to eat tonight? Even if it's some ice cream or whatever you want-"

"I'll think about it. Thank you, Mom." Rose closes her bedroom door and slowly drags herself back into bed. 

Tears fill her eyes as she curls back up in a ball in the middle of her bed, her heart thumping. She pulls out her phone and texts her dad:

'I hate you and what you've done but I miss you and what our life was like so bad. I miss the old house. I miss it all. I am never going to be able to trust anyone in case they turn out like you. Why did you do this? I don't understand.'

Steve was sitting at his work desk, his heavy eyes reading and responding to email after email, and filing paperwork after paperwork, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting it to be a text from his bank regarding his credit score, but when he saw Rose's message on the screen, his heart dropped. 

He blinked, his eyes burning as he re read the most hurtful part: I am never going to be able to trust anyone in case they turn out like you.

That was the line that made his stomach drop and violently churn with heavy guilt, his intrusive thoughts penetrating his mind again, spinning him from his strict work routine. 

Steve's thumb trembled over the keyboard. He didn't know what to type or how to type it. What could a father say to his daughter to fix the fact that he obliterated her definition of love? An act that would haunt him for decades to come. 

He began to type: I know that saying sorry won't fix things, it won't change anything, but I am sorry, and I'll be sorry for the rest of my life. If you want to call me and have a good shout and rant, that's fine. I shouldn't have done this to your mother, to any of you. 

Before Steve could press send, his coworker yelled from across the office, "Hey Harrington! We're going out for a drink tonight, happy hour and all that. You in?"

Steve switched his phone off and forced it back into his pocket, looking up at his coworker. 

"Sorry?" He took a deep breath.

"Happy Hour. Tonight. You coming?" 

Steve knew he shouldn't. He knew that drinking was a bad idea for him and his guilt, but is Tuesday nights were boring and empty, just like every other day before Friday and Saturday came around. 

Steve cleared his throat, "Yeah, I'll be there." 

Whilst you spent the day watching long and boring training videos in between listening to Ross's bad jokes, you didn't receive a single text from Rose. You told yourself that maybe she was too tired and went to sleep or that she didn't want anything, but you began to worry if you had become negligent of your children and their wants and needs whilst you were going through Hope's NICU stay and the divorce. 

You stopped by the store anyway and bought a basket and some things to make a hamper for her. Some face masks, a new lip balm, more pads, a heat pad for the cramps, comfy pyjamas, and some snacks to perk her up if she was feeling rotten.

When searching for these items you found yourself tearing up, coming to the realisation that you didn't really know your daughter as well as you thought. You couldn't pick out the chocolate bar of her choice, that was always Steve's speciality. He knew what chocolate and snacks they liked because he'd always bribe them with it. 

Maybe I should call him and ask. 

No. Don't. You're only to call him when it's an emergency, remember?

But it feels like an emergency...

It isn't. Hospitalisation is an emergency, a shooting is an emergency, not this. If you give him an inch over a fucking chocolate bar, he'll get the wrong idea and take a mile.

You decided not to call him, and as your eyes scanned your options, they widened at the bar sitting right in front of you. Boppers. First, a glimpse of him in your son, and now his favourite snack of all time was staring at you, risen from the dead. 

This must be a joke.

You quickly stormed away from the aisle and rushed over to the self-checkout section, your basket swinging on your arm, "The sooner today is over, the fucking better," you muttered, tapping your card as you paid. 

When you arrived home the kids were busy with homework, drawing away with a mouthful of spaghetti, Rose was still in her room. 

"Mom," you murmured so the other kids couldn't hear you, holding Rose's hamper in your arms "When you were watching Hope today, how was Rose? Did she seem any better?" 

Your mother sighed, "She came out for a glass of water and a cry, but she's been in her room. She's kept to herself." 

You nodded and pursed your lips, "I'm sorry to ask this of you, but can you just stay for a little longer? This isn't like her, and I'm a little worried. She never texted me." Your eyes fell on Rose's bedroom door. 

Your mother tucked a stray hair of yours behind your ear, "I'll do anything for you, you know that. Nothing is too big an ask." 

You knocked once, but there was no answer. You slowly opened her bedroom door and found Rose still curled up in a ball, her back facing you. "Rose, Sweetie? You never texted me." 

Walking into her bedroom, Rose slowly sat up, her eyes still red from all the crying. You sat down on her bed, your eyes focusing on her oily and unbrushed hair, the sudden urge to take her into your arms and care for her like you did when she was a baby became overwhelming, and the realisation of how fast she was growing almost winded you. 

"What's the matter?" you asked her softly, placing her hamper on the bed, "Please talk."

Rose wiped her eyes and looked away, "I feel like I'm betraying you," she confessed. 

"Betraying me? What's got you saying that?" You carefully placed your hand on her back, but didn't rub it, afraid you'd scare her off. 

Rose sighed, "I know I shouldn't because what he's done is so wrong and I hate him for it, but.. I miss my dad." Her voice cracked. 

Steve sat at the edge of the leather booth, staring down into his sixth drink of whiskey. He was lost in his own little world, with the familiar tightening of his chest as his guilt began to rear its ugly head again.

"Hey, Harrington," called out his coworker, "Loosen up, man. You look miserable!" 

I am fucking miserable. I don't even want to be here. 

"Just tired, you'll understand when you're my age," Steve forced a smile.

Steve knew he shouldn't drink anything else; he knew that he was going overboard and should call a cab to take him home, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the booth. He just sat there, glued to the leather, accepting drink after drink and shot after shot, his head and vision a swirling and blurry mess.

I've ruined everything. I've ruined my life, her life... my kids...

"Steve? You still with us?" a soft and lighter voice called down. 

Steve blinked and turned his head, almost collapsing when your face appeared next to him. Well, he thought it was you anyway, noticing the similarities in the hair and eyes. In reality, it was an apprentice who had only been at the company for over a month who got the job by charming everyone but Steve during her trial shift.

In his intoxicated state, the room seemed to tilt, and he couldn't shake the person staring back at him. It was you, it had to be you,  smiling at him. The guilt gnawing at him dissipated and was followed by a rush of warmth and relief.

"Oh my god," Steve slurred, "you're actually here, I've missed you so fucking bad."

The apprentice laughed, and her heart skipped, "Steve, I only got up to get us drinks."

She had taken a liking to Steve, the man she saw as the mysterious ex-husband all the wives were desperate to eat up for the sake of it. She saw the appeal of an older and questionably wealthy man, rather than who he had been to his ex-wife and kids.

Driven by the overwhelming wave of relief, desperation and alcohol, Steve reached out, cupping her cheek as he pressed his lips to hers. The apprentice didn't pull away, instead, she kissed back and moved her hand onto Steve's thigh.

At first, it felt like mutual fireworks going off between them, but as the kiss deepened, the illusion fell apart. The soft lips against Steve's didn't feel like yours; they weren't the same shape and didn't move with the tailored perfection as yours did. 

Did you really think your ex-wife would show up here?

Steve opened his eyes and his drunken, blurry illusion shattered instantly, and his heart shattered in horror when the apprentice stared back at him, her lipstick slightly smeared across her lips. Her hand was still planted on his thigh. Around the table, the conversation had died down, a few colleagues staring at them in silence.

"Oh god," Steve breathed, his heart beating rapidly, unevenly. 

"What's wrong?" She asked, "Steve?"

Steve jerked his arm back after pushing her hand off him, almost spilling his drink over. "Oh god, I’m, I’m so sorry."

"Steve, calm down-"

"I, I have to go." Steve slid out of the booth and stood up in a panic, a little wavy on his feet as he wiped her lipstick off his lips. 

He didn't bother saying goodbye; he just stumbled through the crowded bar, pushing past other drinkers until he finally broke through the double doors, his chest heaving as he burst into tears. Trembling, he pulled out his phone, his thumb clumsily tapping his taxi-cab app. Within three minutes, a small car pulled up to the curb, an elderly man behind the wheel.

"Rough night, boy?" the driver asked, his voice gruff.

"You have no idea." Steve croaked, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur together. 

When you awoke in the morning, James was already awake, sitting with Rose at the table, the two of them throwing cereal at one another.

"You're both up a little early for a school day," you yawned, still in your robe and slippers. 

You were up late with Rose, holding her as she wept for her dad. Reassuring her that she wasn't betraying you for missing him, that what you all had gone through as a family was difficult and not normal for children and teens to go through. 

You encouraged Rose to reach out to her father, to ring him out of the blue, but her fear of being betrayed again was almost as severe as yours. She felt guilty for pushing him away, for the texts she sent, but she also didn't know how else to behave. The pushing back was a natural response; she was protecting herself, and you couldn't get in the way of that. 

"There was a knock at the door," James spoke up, his mouth full of dry cereal, "Dad sent flowers."

"Flowers?" You scowled, "What is he playing at! Where are they?" 

"Still outside, on the porch with next door's parcel." James swallowed, throwing a small handful again at Rose. 

Storming over to the front door, you angrily unlocked and yanked open the door, noticing the beautiful pink tulips next to the parcel. You bent over and snatched the flowers, ready to bash them into pieces when you realised that the flowers weren't for you; they were for Rose. 

Pink Tulips were her favourite, always had been. She drew them on every scrap of paper she was given from the age of three until she turned five; the two years' worth of the floral illustrations ended up in frames all over the house, pinned to the fridge, and given as cute little gifts to your parents and her babysitters. 

Pink Tulips were the first thing outside of you, Steve, and James made her happy and feel safe.

Quickly, you loosened your grip on the stems, praying that you hadn't already damaged them. You searched for a note hidden within the stems and petals, quickly glancing at it to check the name. 

ROSE.

You didn't read any further and rushed back inside, quickly hunting for a vase.

"Are you seriously bringing those in?" James scoffed.

"They aren't for me," you whispered, nodding your head towards Rose. 

Rose was in her own world, her heat pad resting against her lower stomach, almost doubling over when the cramps intensified. 

"James, can you do something for me?" You asked, filling the vase with lukewarm water.

James groaned and hung his head back, "What?" 

James began to change too, more irritable and a little taller, but you knew it would take a little longer before he changed into a man. You weren't looking forward to it either, your eldest was Steve's double in almost every way, and whilst you knew they were so different, you couldn't stop the worry of him turning out like his dad from settling into your bones. 

You didn't unwrap or prepare the flowers; you didn't want to take it away from her. "Take the parcel to next door, please. There'll be ten dollars with your name on it."

James and Rose argued now and then, but it was never personal. They were twins, they were closer than they were to anyone else, but Rose receiving flowers from dad pulled at something in James. 

I'm suffering and struggling just as much as she is. Why is he sending her flowers? What the fuck is he getting me? Nothing. 

James glared and slowly got up out of his seat, still crunching on his cereal, "Fine." He grumbled, his jaw clenching, "Whatever you want."

Once James walked out, you glided over to your daughter, bringing the flowers with you. 

"Rose, these aren't for me. Their yours." 

Rose looked up at you and then at the pink tulips, her eyes lighting up like a small star in the night sky, a rare twinkle pulling through. 

"Pink Tulips..." she whispered, "I remember drawing those when..." her voice changed as her eyes filled with tears. 

"They came with a note," you said softly, "I haven't read it, but it's for you." 

James stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind him, making you and Rose jump. 

"They've got it," he hissed, "now give me my ten dollars." 

Rose scowled at her brother, pulling the tulips into her chest, "James, don't talk to her like that." 

You gave a soft glance to your daughter before stepping in front of her, "Thank you for giving them their parcel, but if you're going to talk to me like that, then you aren't getting anything." You were stern but not unkind. 

James stared at you, his eyes piercing you, and it sent jolts into your body. You were staring back at his father, who had stared at you the same way when you were searching around his office. Your brain started to go into overdrive, bringing back the memories. 

James noticed the fright in your eyes and how your body went stiff, the way your lip quivered before you'd cry. His eyes widened at his own outburst, and his face began to flush with embarrassment. 

"I'm sorry," he panicked, his voice exactly like Steve's, "I'm really sorry, Mom."

He's your son, he's not Steve. 

They share the same face, they have the same voice, but he isn't him.

He is your son.

Snapping out of your spiral and letting out a deep breath, trying to control your breathing and heart rate, you rushed out of the kitchen and down the hall, back into your bedroom. 

James stood frozen in the kitchen, and Rose couldn't look away. She knew staring at him would only make things worse, but she couldn't stop. 

"What's the matter with you?" Rose hissed, walking over to the vase, "You shouldn't talk to her like that."

James bit his tongue, allowing the rage to go through him without letting it overspill. 

"Dad got you flowers," he pointed at the tulips, "What the hell did he get for me?" 

End of Part 10

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