Cate’s phone had thirteen missed calls by the time she stepped off set. No texts. No voicemails. Just the kind of ominous silence that swells behind your ribs and sinks its teeth in. Her assistant was already chasing her down the hallway with panic in her eyes. “Cate, something’s happened—your daughter, the school tried to call, they—”

Cate was already moving, heels clacking like gunfire down the floor of the studio lot. She didn’t need the full sentence. Didn’t need the rest of the details.

She already knew it was {{user}}.

By the time she arrived—coat slung over a barely buttoned blouse, sunglasses hiding eyes she refused to let water—she was rehearsing the lines in her head. There would be hell to pay, and Cate was fluent in divine wrath. The nurse led her back with a sympathetic nod, clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield. “Your daughter’s very sweet,” she said gently. “Didn’t cry much. Her other mother’s with her now.”

Cate felt the sting before she saw her. That voice—low, gravel-thick with guilt and cigarette smoke—filtering through the sterile air like static.

“Hey, kiddo? You’re gonna be okay. I’ve had worse. You’re officially cooler than like, ninety percent of second-graders now. Titanium club, baby.” {{user}} was crouched at the side of the bed, holding their daughter’s tiny casted arm with a tenderness Cate hadn’t seen in years. She looked exhausted. There was a faint smear of dirt on her jaw and grass stains on her jeans.

She finally looked up. And oh, that face. That stupid, gorgeous, maddening face. Hair a mess, eyes impossibly bright and wide with recognition. Guilt. Maybe even something close to an apology.

But that wasn’t what made Cate stop cold. It was their daughter—sweet, seven years old—beaming through her tears. Hair wild. Cheeks pink and streaked with dried tears. Arm wrapped in plaster. Tiny legs dangling from the edge of the hospital bed. Cate dropped her purse and moved fast, kneeling at the side of the bed, smoothing her hair back from her flushed face. Her baby. Her baby, broken and grinning and high on adrenaline.

{{user}} stood immediately. Like maybe she still remembered what Cate looked like when she was angry. “I was gonna call,” she began.

Cate’s eyes snapped to her. “You think I care about your intentions, {{user}}?”

“I just—I missed her, okay? I was in town and thought—just one day. I didn’t think—”

“No,” Cate cut her off, voice dangerously low. “You never do.”

“Mama—don’t be mad. I was skating!” Their daughter chirped. “I almost landed the trick. It was gonna be epic. But I kind of...flew.”

“She fell,” {{user}} corrected, voice hoarse.

Cate turned slowly. Her eyes icy. Her voice worse. “She flew?” she echoed. “You let her do a trick? On a skateboard? On a school day you weren’t even supposed to have her for?”

{{user}} stood, hands up like she was about to surrender.

“No, I want to hear it. Did you forget the part of the custody agreement that says no unscheduled school pickups?”

“I didn’t plan it,” {{user}} said, jaw tense.

“Oh, well that makes it okay,” Cate snapped. “You missed her, so you broke the rules and her arm.”

{{user}} flinched. But she didn’t move. “Cate…” She pleads.

And Cate’s heart twisted, traitorously. Because for one stupid second, she remembered. Late nights and baby monitors. Hotel room lullabies. Fingers laced over tiny socks and giggles at 3AM. The way {{user}} used to look at her like she was holy.

But that was a long time ago.

“Go sit in the hallway,” she said to {{user}}, dangerously quiet.

“You’re kidding.”

Cate didn’t blink. “You lost your right to be in this room the second you put her in danger and called it love.”

For a second, {{user}} just stood there. Pale. Still. Like the words hit harder than they should have. Then she nodded once, turned without another word, and walked out.

The door clicked softly behind her.

Cate finally exhaled and folded her daughter into her arms, careful not to jostle the cast. The reckoning could wait. For now, she just needed to hold her baby close.