MasukLila’s P.O.VThe gates of Blackwood opened that crystal morning to our welcome.I felt the sound before I heard it—the low groan of iron moving on iron, the soft crunch of gravel under tires that weren’t mine. Lucian drove the last stretch in silence. His knuckles were pale on the wheel, but his breathing stayed even. In the back seat Shayla pressed her nose to the window, whispering “Wow” every time another stone lion or ivy-covered arch appeared. Lucas clutched his dinosaur tighter. Aiden slept against the car seat, oblivious.I hadn’t spoken since we passed the last town sign.Lucian glanced at me once—quick, searching—then back at the road.“You still sure?” he asked.I nodded.He reached over. Squeezed my hand once.We rolled under the arch.The main drive stretched ahead—perfectly raked gravel, ancient oaks lining both sides like silent sentinels. At the end of it the house rose, gray stone warmed by weak spring sun, windows glittering like eyes that had been waiting years for m
Lila’s P.O.VThree days.Seventy-two hours.They slipped through my fingers like water I couldn’t hold.I woke on the morning of April 16 with the same tightness in my chest I’d carried since the council’s final summons arrived. The apartment still smelled faintly of Lucian’s coffee and the kids’ strawberry shampoo. Shayla was already up, sitting cross-legged on the rug in her pajamas, coloring a dragon with wings that looked suspiciously like guitar strings. Lucas was building a tower out of blocks, muttering about “defending the castle.” Aiden slept on, thumb in mouth, blanket kicked to the foot of the crib.Lucian was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, making pancakes. He’d been up since six, moving quietly so he wouldn’t wake anyone. When he saw me standing in the doorway he set the spatula down and crossed the small space between us.“You okay?” he asked, voice low.“No,” I said. “But I’m ready.”He cupped my face with both hands—warm, steady, calloused from strings and steering
Lila’s P.O.VThe alert came at 7:03 a.m. on April 13—three days before the Blackwood deadline.I was standing at the kitchen counter in socks and Lucian’s old tour hoodie, stirring instant coffee that smelled faintly of burnt rubber, when my phone lit up with the bank notification. I almost ignored it. Deposits had become routine since Damien started paying again: $1,700 on the first, like clockwork. Enough to breathe. Enough to stop checking the balance before every grocery run.This one was different.$3,400.Double.No memo line. No note. Just the numbers staring back at me like they knew something I didn’t.I set the spoon down. Opened the app. Refreshed twice. The amount didn’t change.My first thought was error.My second was trap.I texted Ms. Rivera before the coffee finished brewing.*Damien sent double child support this morning. $3,400 instead of $1,700. No explanation. Should I be worried?*Her reply came in under two minutes.*Not automatically. Double payments aren’t unh
Lila's P.O.VEthan didn’t move right away after I said the words.He stood in the hallway outside my door like someone had nailed his shoes to the floor. The bouquet of ranunculus hung limp in his hand, petals already drooping from the heat of his palm. His eyes—those same hazel eyes Shayla had inherited—were glassy, red-rimmed, and fixed on me like I was the last thing tethering him to the earth.I could see it all.The guilt was there, yes—deep, raw, eating him from the inside out. It scorched across his face in the way his mouth trembled, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on broken glass. Regret carved lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago. Torture lived in the way he kept swallowing, like every breath hurt. He looked like a man who’d finally woken up inside the wreckage he’d made and realized there was no clean way out.And still I felt nothing clean in return.Not pity. Not relief. Just… recognition.This was what I’d wanted once—to see him feel th
Lila's P.O.VThe hearing room still smelled like old varnish and nervous sweat when I walked out of it at 11:47 a.m. on April 23. The judge’s gavel had barely stopped echoing before Ms. Rivera turned to me in the hallway, voice low and urgent.“We won the emergency motion,” she said. “No removal. No temporary guardianship. Felicia’s petition is denied without prejudice—they can refile in sixty days if they think they’ve got new grounds, but right now the kids stay with you.”I nodded once. My throat was too tight for words.Lucian stood beside me, Aiden asleep against his shoulder, Shayla clutching my hand so hard her knuckles were white, Lucas kicking at the scuffed tile like he could kick the whole morning away. We walked out of the courthouse into weak April sunlight that felt like it belonged to someone else’s life.Back home, I locked the door. Chain. Deadbolt. Window latches. Then I sat on the living-room floor with the kids while Lucian made grilled cheese in the kitchen. Shayl
Lila’s P.O.VThe silence lasted exactly nine days after the guardianship hearing.Nine days of nothing.No letters slipped under the door.No couriers in gray jackets.No late-night breathing voicemails.No black town cars idling across the street.No Clara in pearls standing outside the preschool gate with that polite, poisonous smile.Just quiet.The kind of quiet that makes every floorboard creak feel like a warning.Lucian stayed.He canceled the remaining press junkets, told the label he was taking “personal time,” ignored the emails piling up in his inbox. He slept on the pull-out every night, woke up before the kids to make coffee, learned how to braid Shayla’s hair (badly, but she giggled every time), taught Lucas three new chords on an old acoustic he’d brought from storage, held Aiden through two asthma episodes without flinching.He was here.Solid.Warm.Real.And still I woke up every morning waiting for the other shoe.Because Ma Felicia didn’t do quiet unless she was lo







