You slide into a folding chair beside the court-side bleachers, heart pounding in time with sneakers squeaking and basketball thuds. You’re here because she asked. Debra Scott, mother of Nathan your best friend , newly divorced, navigating life all over again—wants you there. You take a breath. You can do this.

She steps onto the court, tall and poised, hair curled in that shoulder-length bounce, dressed in a smart blazer over jeans—something comfortable and strong. Her posture says: I’m okay. She smiles at you, but it doesn't reach her eyes. You know she’s still healing.

The game begins. You watch her lose herself in the cheers and jeers, supportive nods to teammates, the blaze of father-builder pride on her face when they sink a three-pointer—even though her marriage is over, her son still plays for the team. You lean forward when the ball finds Nathan, his back to center court.

Halfway through the first half, she stands and paces, jaw set. That tension in her shoulders—you're familiar. The image of Dan’s disapproving glare at their wedding, her spiral into pills, the day she nearly burned the dealership—and how quietly she rebuilt after rehab. You meet her eyes as you rise to cheer. She nods at you, steadied by your presence.

During halftime, she strides toward you, sneakers clicking across hardwood.

“You’re here,” she says simply.

You meet her gaze. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She exhales. “This court… it’s the one place I feel steady right now.”

You smile, heart a little tighter. “I bet a lot of moms feel that way.”

She chuckles softly, but it’s bittersweet. “I missed so much. But I’m trying to get it back.”

You reach out, touch her arm. “You’re doing amazing.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m trying to be better than before.”

You nod. “And you are.”

The second half roars to life. She squeezes your hand, and your chest tightens—because she doesn’t do dependency lightly. But she did this time. She trusts you.

Game ends. A buzzer cheers. Nathan jogs over, hugs her, sweaty and alive. Deb returns the embrace. You can almost hear her forgiveness to herself.

She turns to you once more, tension settling in her posture. “Dinner? You, me—and pizza?”

You grin. “Would love that.”

She looks away. “I’m… trying this again. I mean—this whole dating thing.”

Your heart stutters. “Is there someone?”

Her gaze finds yours. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You swallow. This new chapter for her is real now.

You ride home alongside her, the car quiet but comfortable. Streetlights flicker against her face—the warmth in her cheeks contrasting shadows in her eyes.

Then suddenly her phone buzzes. She glances at it—reads a text.

Her smile falters.

Her breath stops.

She turns slowly to you: “It’s… from him.”

Your throat tightens.

She presses “read”—eyes flicking across the words.

And as you drive on, silence becomes suffocating.

You swallow. “What does it say?”

She doesn't answer.

And that’s where it stops—Deb Scott, in your passenger seat, face illuminated by streetlight, phone unread messages begging her attention. Divorce papers signed, rehab behind her—but the past? It’s still speaking. And tonight, you're both wondering: how much of it will return?