Hij zat op een klein krukje, deelde poederdonuts en warme appelsap, maakte selfies met haar en haar pluchen giraffe, en vroeg haar of de foto’s er goed uitzagen voordat hij er een naar Tom stuurde.
Voorbijgangers gaven me die blik—de stille, wetende glimlach die vrouwen delen als er echt iets veranderd is.
En daar stopte het niet.
For illustrative purposes only
The next week, Ryan handled drop-off and pickup while I stayed in bed a little longer, sipping a hot cup of coffee and reading a book. He ran a load of laundry, beaming even though he turned three shirts pink and shrank a sweater.
The week after that, he made dinner on Tuesday. The grilled cheese was practically charcoal, but Susie dubbed it “crunchy-delicious.” He read bedtime stories, stumbling over dragon names and making her laugh so hard she woke the dog.
They built a birdhouse together—a lopsided, glitter-covered masterpiece. I watched from the kitchen window as they stepped back to admire it, and for the first time in months, I felt something warm rise inside me.
Hope.
Not loud hope. Gentle hope. The kind that doesn’t promise, but quietly invites you to believe again.
Then came the next Friday.
“Let’s go get something for Mommy,” Ryan told Susie after dinner, wiping her hands. “Because she’s done all the work… and now it’s our turn.”
They returned an hour later with a pink gift bag that smelled faintly of chocolate. Inside: fuzzy socks, a “Boss Mama” mug, a slab of chocolate, and a glittery card that read:
“You’re the best mommy. Love, Susie.”
I cried. Not because I was hurt—because I wasn’t anymore.
Sometimes the words that break you are the same ones that stitch you back together. And sometimes it takes a six-year-old saying the truth the only way she knows how.
On Sunday morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon and the sound of Susie giggling. I slipped into my robe and padded down the hall.
There they were—Ryan at the stove, spatula in hand, while Susie stood on a chair beside him, face smudged with pancake batter. A leaning tower of slightly burnt pancakes sat on a plate nearby.
Ryan looked up and grinned.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. “Chef Susie insisted on breakfast duty.”
“And I’m a very strict chef,” Susie added seriously, waving a wooden spoon. “Daddy’s in charge of the stove stuff. And I’m in charge of syrup and berries.”
I laughed and kissed the top of her head.
Ryan handed me the new mug—“Boss Mama”—filled with coffee exactly the way I liked it.
“I wanted to do something,” he said softly. “Not just for her. For you… You make everything work, Nancy. And I don’t say it enough. But I see it. I see you, sweetheart.”
I held the mug tightly as emotion flooded my chest.
“I don’t expect perfection, Ry,” I told him. “I just want a partnership. I want us to raise our child together. To tag-team when one of us needs a break. I don’t want us to miss the little things… and if we’re partners, we won’t. We’ll get to do all of it. Together.”
“I’m learning,” he whispered, kissing my forehead.
