We sat together on the balcony, sipping tea and reviewing the blueprints for a new coastal home I had decided to build near the ocean—a bright, airy sanctuary built on my own terms, designed specifically for my daughter to grow up surrounded by light, ocean air, and absolute safety.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting deep violet and orange reflections across the river below, my phone chimed on the table.
It was a restricted number. I knew without looking that it was Julian, calling from a payphone or a new burner line as he did once every few weeks when the reality of his new life hit him. He would leave desperate, rambling voicemails begging for a second chance, swearing he had changed, pleading to see the daughter he hadn’t spent ten minutes with since her birth.
I didn’t let the phone ring out. I didn’t feel a surge of anger, nor a flicker of curiosity.
I simply picked up the device, tapped the screen, and deleted the log entirely.
I picked up Cora, holding her close against my heart as we stood by the glass watching the stars come out over the city. The past was a closed door behind us, locked tight, with the key thrown deep into the ocean.
Ahead of us lay a bright, unwritten future—unbroken, unburdened, and entirely ours.
