Chapter 14
One year later.
Leo took his first steps on a Saturday morning, toddling across the living room toward Dominic with his arms outstretched and a grin that showed four tiny teeth.
"Da!" he said. Clear as anything.
Dominic caught him and lifted him high, and the look on his face — wonder and fierce love and something almost like disbelief — made my heart crack open in the best possible way.
The adoption had been finalized two months ago. Ryan hadn't contested it — he couldn't, given the felony charges and the terms of our agreement. He'd signed the papers from a minimum-security facility upstate.
I didn't feel sorry for him. Some people might call that cold. I called it clarity.
Harper bounded through our front door without knocking — a habit she'd never break.
"I brought donuts and gossip," she announced, then stopped dead. "Did he just say 'Da'? Oh my GOD."
The kitchen filled with noise and sugar and Harper's dramatic retelling of a disastrous date she'd been on. Dominic made coffee while Leo smeared frosting across his high chair tray. I sat at the table, watching all of it, holding a warmth in my chest that still surprised me.
Later, after Harper left and Leo napped, Dominic found me in the nursery, standing by the window.
"You're quiet," he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how a year ago, I was lying in a hospital bed with empty arms, and a man I trusted was trying to erase me from my own child's life." I leaned back into him. "And now I'm here."
He pressed his lips to my temple. "You got yourself here. I just held the door open."
I smiled. "You did more than that."
"Barely."
"Dominic."
"Hmm?"
I turned in his arms. "Thank you for not waiting another three years to tell me."
His gray eyes softened — that look that was only ever for me. "Thank you for hearing me this time."
Outside, spring was pushing through the last chill of winter. The sage-green walls glowed in the afternoon light. Leo murmured in his sleep, dreaming whatever good dreams babies dream.
And I stood there, in my own home, with my own family — real and chosen and *mine* — and I knew with absolute certainty:
I would never again confuse sacrifice with love.
The right person doesn't ask you to disappear.
The right person makes sure you're seen.
Leo took his first steps on a Saturday morning, toddling across the living room toward Dominic with his arms outstretched and a grin that showed four tiny teeth.
"Da!" he said. Clear as anything.
Dominic caught him and lifted him high, and the look on his face — wonder and fierce love and something almost like disbelief — made my heart crack open in the best possible way.
The adoption had been finalized two months ago. Ryan hadn't contested it — he couldn't, given the felony charges and the terms of our agreement. He'd signed the papers from a minimum-security facility upstate.
I didn't feel sorry for him. Some people might call that cold. I called it clarity.
Harper bounded through our front door without knocking — a habit she'd never break.
"I brought donuts and gossip," she announced, then stopped dead. "Did he just say 'Da'? Oh my GOD."
The kitchen filled with noise and sugar and Harper's dramatic retelling of a disastrous date she'd been on. Dominic made coffee while Leo smeared frosting across his high chair tray. I sat at the table, watching all of it, holding a warmth in my chest that still surprised me.
Later, after Harper left and Leo napped, Dominic found me in the nursery, standing by the window.
"You're quiet," he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how a year ago, I was lying in a hospital bed with empty arms, and a man I trusted was trying to erase me from my own child's life." I leaned back into him. "And now I'm here."
He pressed his lips to my temple. "You got yourself here. I just held the door open."
I smiled. "You did more than that."
"Barely."
"Dominic."
"Hmm?"
I turned in his arms. "Thank you for not waiting another three years to tell me."
His gray eyes softened — that look that was only ever for me. "Thank you for hearing me this time."
Outside, spring was pushing through the last chill of winter. The sage-green walls glowed in the afternoon light. Leo murmured in his sleep, dreaming whatever good dreams babies dream.
And I stood there, in my own home, with my own family — real and chosen and *mine* — and I knew with absolute certainty:
I would never again confuse sacrifice with love.
The right person doesn't ask you to disappear.
The right person makes sure you're seen.