𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Your baby slept peacefully in his bassinet beside the couch, his tiny chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the TV. You sank onto the cushions with a sigh, finally stealing a moment to breathe. The bottles were washed, the milk pumped and portioned, the dishes done. You even managed a piece of toast— dry, slightly stale and eaten over the sink at nearly eleven o’clock.

The TV murmured in the background, some forgettable cable show turned down low so it wouldn’t wake him. You stared at the screen without really seeing it, eyelids heavy, body aching in that deep way only new mothers know. Four months of sleepless nights, of doing it all yourself, had hollowed you out. Still—you wouldn’t trade your son’s soft breaths beside you for anything.

Just as your head tipped against the couch cushion, something flickered at the edge of your vision.

You froze.

Living here, in this neighborhood, you’d trained yourself to notice everything—shadows under streetlights, footsteps too close, cars idling too long. You turned your head toward the wide living room window, and your heart stuttered.

Brian.

He wasn’t supposed to be out. Not for another eleven months.

Your mind raced back before the arrest—before the sentence. The two of you had started in the apartment above Harry’s garage, scraping by on his paycheck and Harry’s kindness. You thought it was temporary. And when Brian came home with pockets full of “side job” money, you let yourself believe him. Within months, you had a house. Small, sure—a single bedroom, one bath, a kitchen that barely fit its stove—but it was yours.

And for a while, it felt like everything was finally falling into place. A new house. A promotion at work. Nights where you could actually sleep next to the man you loved. He even promised he’d quit racing. For a second, you believed him.

Until you didn’t.

The late-night disappearances. The smell of exhaust and burned rubber that clung to him. The way cash seemed to vanish and reappear, along with new parts for his car. You warned him, again and again, that it would end badly. That if it did, you wouldn’t be there waiting. He didn’t listen.

And then the raid came. Cops swarming a midnight race, engines screaming into the dark. Brian was one of the few caught. Sentenced to two years.

You visited him once. Ended things with the cold finality of someone who had no choice, deciding not to mention his son growing inside your belly. He was never going to change. And you wouldn’t let your son grow up with a father in and out of prison, forever chained to his bad habits.

You walked away. Alone. Pregnant. And you stayed gone.

But now, four months after giving birth, he was here. Standing on the sidewalk infront of the house, the weak yellow glow of your porch light somehow made it to him, making it easier to see him.

And your baby—his baby—was sleeping just feet away.

Your pulse hammered. Quietly, you pushed yourself up from the couch and moved to the door. You opened it slowly, stepping onto the porch, arms crossing tight over your chest as if that could hold you together.

Brian lifted his head at the sound. For a moment, his expression softened, almost sheepish. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey.”