You traced your finger along the rim of your teacup while your eyes were fixed on the open children's book on the table. Your son was sitting beside you, his legs too short to reach the floor. He kicked softly against the chair as he ate a cake.

The peace was a rare thing. Hard-won.

Then the doorbell rang.

At first, you didn’t look up — just another customer — but the shift in energy was instant, as if gravity had pulled harder for a moment. You looked up.

And time stopped.

Mattheo was standing near the entrance, shaking the rain off his hair. He was wearing dark robes, and he looked surprised to see you.

Your breath hitched.

He stared. Not at the book, not at the pastries. At you. Then his gaze fell on the child sitting beside you.

You leaned down to whisper to your son, “Darling, can you go look at the picture books near the window? Just for a bit?”

He looked up at you, confused. “Okay.” He slid off the chair and wandered to the reading corner without fuss, humming softly to himself.

When you turned back, Mattheo was already walking over. He stopped across from you. “I wasn’t sure it was you at first.”

You swallowed. “It’s been a long time.”

His gaze flicked to the small boy now squatting to flip through a colorful book, then back to you. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”

You nodded once.

Silence settled. You braced yourself—for anger, for blame. But none came.

Instead, Mattheo sat down slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to shatter the moment. “How old is he?”

“Three. Almost four.”

He closed his eyes for a beat. “I missed everything.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t plan for it to happen this way. But after we ended... you were in a dark place, Mattheo. And I was scared. I didn’t know if telling you would make things worse. For you... or for him.”

He nodded, slowly. “I don’t blame you.”

You blinked. “You don’t?”

“I would’ve ruined it,” he said simply. “Back then, I wasn’t someone a child should have had in their life. Maybe not even someone you should’ve had around.”

You looked at him then. The anger you’d expected wasn’t there. Just quiet understanding, and perhaps a hint of guilt.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he added after a moment. “I just thought… I thought it was too late.”

“It still could be,” you said softly. “I don’t know how to let you back in. Not yet.”

“I’m not asking to change anything today,” he said gently. “I just want to know him. Even if I have to start as a stranger.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “He’s a good kid. Smart. Kind. And... you’ll see a lot of yourself in him.”

Mattheo gave a small smile. “I already do.”

At that moment, your son returned, holding a new book with a dragon on the cover. “Mum, can we get this one too?”

You nodded, your voice soft. “Of course, love.”

He looked at Mattheo curiously, then up at you. “Who’s he?”

You glanced at Mattheo. He smiled—not forced, just soft.

“I’m a friend of your mum’s,” he said calmly. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

Your son grinned. “You talk cool.” Then he held up the book. “This one’s got a fire dragon. Want to see?”

“I’d love to,” Mattheo said, leaning in as your son started flipping pages excitedly.