She paused, then looked up with something fierce and calm in her eyes.
"But I'm not going to wait for a piece of paper to tell me I'm allowed to begin. I've spent so long feeling like I wasn't quite there yet. Like everything had to be paused until I was officially enough. But I'm ready now. I can feel it in my bones.
I gently cupped her face. Her skin was warm under my palm, her eyes shining with something unshakable.
"I'm so proud of you, October," I said. "So damn proud. Watching you build this from scratch, watching you fight for it, it's incredible."
She smiled, eyes glistening.
"So," I said, brushing my thumb against her cheek. "Let's celebrate."
"Where? How?" she asked, half-laughing.
"Leave it to me," I said. "I've got an idea."
That night, I made a reservation at the rooftop place she used to love, the one she hadn't stepped foot in since the kids were small. She wore a pink dress that floated around her knees and looked at me across the table like she didn't know whether to trust me or cry. She didn't cry. Not that night. She laughed. God, she laughed.
After that, it became a rhythm. Something sacred.
One Friday, I blindfolded her and drove us to a small ceramics studio downtown. We sat side by side, our hands covered in cold clay, trying to mold something beautiful and failing completely. She made a lopsided bowl. I made something unidentifiable. We laughed so hard the instructor told us we were disrupting the class. When we left, I carried our "art" like it was precious cargo and told her we'd serve popcorn in it someday.
Another Friday, I packed a basket with her favorite cheeses, fresh strawberries, and a bottle of wine that had dust on it from the back of the cabinet. We drove out to the olive fields, spread a blanket under the trees, and let the sun find us. We didn't talk much that day. We didn't need to.
Some Fridays were small, sushi takeout on the couch while a documentary played in the background. Her feet on my lap, my thumb brushing circles over her ankle. Some were indulgent: a night at the planetarium where she cried softly under a sky made of stars and projection lights after I whispered: "We made it, love. We're still here." She didn't say anything. Just pulled my face toward hers and kissed me like gratitude, like forgiveness, like time rewound.
Another Friday, I took her to a quiet bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat. We spent an hour picking books for each other. She gave me a novel about scent and memory. I gave her one about a woman who left everything behind to chase her own name. We read them under a tree in the park, trading pages like secrets.
There was a kind of magic in the ritual.
The weekends though? They were for them. For family time. They were our slow moments, blankets on the lawn, Lola dozing on my chest, Alice building towers out of blocks or grass, Jimmy sketching something in his notebook with earbuds in, doing homework, or just going out and planning dates with his girlfriend, yes girlfriend, and just like that, we were still learning, still healing, but more than anything, we were building. A life that was ours. One we weren't just holding onto anymore, but shaping with our own hands. Steady. Sacred. Moving forward. Together.
One weekend, a few weeks before the official opening, we all went to October's new shop. The space still smelled faintly of fresh paint and sawdust, with boxes stacked in corners and shelves waiting to be filled. It didn't matter; it already felt like hers. Like home.
We spent most of the afternoon helping. Alice and Jimmy labeled jars and arranged baskets while Lola napped in her stroller. October moved through the space with a kind of quiet joy, asking us about display ideas, scent pairings, even music for the soft background playlist. She let us in, completely into the making of something she'd dreamed about for years.
Around lunchtime, we spread a picnic blanket right in the middle of the floor. A mess of sandwiches, juice boxes, coffee in mismatched mugs, and crumpled napkins. It wasn't glamorous, but it was perfect.
Later, after we finished sorting the last of the inventory and vacuuming up glitter (Alice's contribution), October and the kids headed to the car while I stayed back to lock up.
I turned off the lights, did one final check, and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me.
That's when I saw him. Leo.
He stood across the street, half in shadow, wearing the same navy windbreaker I remembered from years ago. Leo, the janitor from my father's company. The man who used to whistle jazz while he mopped the marble floors. The one who always kept mints in his pocket for kids who looked nervous before big boardroom meetings. I hadn't seen him since the fallout.
"Thomas," he said, voice warm, almost amused.
"Leo?" I blinked, stunned. "God—it's been months. How have you been?"
He shrugged. "Still vertical. Still sweeping up messes, just not the ones in your father's building."
I stepped forward, hands shoved into my coat pockets. "I'm sorry I never came back. Not once."
Leo waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. It's getting better now. Took time, but the poison left with the people who brewed it."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched for a beat before he tilted his head and gave me a once-over.
"You look happy," he said simply.
"I am," I said, and meant it. "It was bad for a while. But we're getting there. Slowly."
He smiled, a little crooked. "I'm glad. You were always a good kid, Thomas. Just got swept away for a while."
He turned like he was about to walk off, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Maybe," he added casually, "you just needed a reminder. Or a text from an unknown number... something to make you see the truth with your own eyes before it was too late."
He winked.
and just like that, he disappeared into the fading light of the street, his footsteps soft, his figure swallowed by distance. I stood there, stunned. Oh my God. It was him. My heart kicked against my ribs. Grateful. Shaken. Completely undone.
"Thomas?"
October's voice drifted from the car, gentle and grounding. "You okay?"
I turned to look at her, her face in the glow of the dashboard light, our kids in the back, the warmth of everything we'd built waiting for me.
I exhaled.
"Perfect," I said, and it really was.