You weren’t avoiding Spencer. You were simply exercising your right to live your life without your ex-husband popping up every other day.

It had been weeks of this. Little gestures, tiny moments of him trying to remind you what you had together. And while you would have liked to believe he was being normal about it, the moment he walked into Mia’s preschool with a bouquet the size of a toddler, you knew he had officially lost it.

“Spencer,” you say, arms crossed as he approaches you, flowers in one hand, a pink-wrapped box in the other. “What the hell are you doing.”

He clears his throat, clearly nervous. “It’s Valentine’s day,” he says, shifting the box between his hands.

You glance at the teachers in the corner, trying (and failing) to be subtle about their eavesdropping. Even Mia, standing next to you in her little heart-patterned leggings, is watching you two.

“You already gave Mia a Valentine’s gift this morning,” you point out.

“This one’s for you.” He thrusts the box toward you, as if the sudden movement will somehow prevent you from arguing.

You hesitated. Then, carefully, you lift the lid.

Inside is a stack of—oh no.

You blink down at them. “Are these—”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Every love note I ever wrote you.”

Your heart stutters.

Handwritten notes. Some folded, some still tucked into envelopes. Some you recognize instantly—the rushed scribbles from years ago, from the early days of what once was your happy relationship.

“You kept these?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Spencer nods. “Every single one.”

You close the lid before your feelings make a break for it in front of the entire preschool staff.

“So?,” you mutter.

“I never really fought for us when I should have. So I’m fighting now.”

You let out a breath. He looks at you, waiting, hopeful but patient.

Mia tugs at your sleeve. “Mommy, are we keeping Daddy today?”