Damien Emma was watching one particular cartoon show for the third time in a row.I had no clue what was going on. The characters sang too much, and every ten minutes, she turned around with wide eyes like I was supposed to be following along. Every time she did that, I gave her a half-smile and nodded.She seemed content enough. Cross-legged on my living room rug, surrounded by a graveyard of juice boxes, cracker crumbs, and that stuffed blue unicorn she wouldn’t let out of her sight.This wasn’t exactly how I pictured my Tuesday night.I scrubbed a hand down my face and leaned back into the couch. Work had been a mess of meetings and half-answered emails. Anderson was hounding me about final signatures on the Sweet Haven acquisition, and I hadn’t even touched the file since the last time I opened it. And that was also the day I saw his name on her profile.Cassian. Her son.I still hadn’t decided what to do with that information. It sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving
DamienI hadn’t stopped thinking about that file since the moment I closed it.It was the kind of thing that settled in your head. Quiet, but sharp. Every time I tried to move on, it was there again. And of all the things I'd found out, the most jarring was that she'd had a son.Cassian.The name stuck with me, like a distant memory. I'd never imagined Callie as a mother, but now that she was one, it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to hear.And about her being unmarried, I didn’t know what exactly I was feeling. I was angry, sure. She’d lied to my face. Played along when I assumed she had a husband. I thought all this while that she'd been trying to make me feel like the villain in our story, but she hadn't actually done anything. Everything I'd felt was of my own accord. Maybe she was right to keep her life under wraps, away from me.But there was this other thing —something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or just confusion that had curdled into frustration.She had left me. Vanished. An
Callie The “Closed for Renovations” sign hung crooked in the front door, a silent nod to a truth I hadn’t yet said aloud. It was easier than “Closed Forever.” Less final. Clara stood on a step stool by the pantry shelves, pulling down the last of the bulk containers and calling out over her shoulder, “Do we still want to keep the convection oven parts or donate them?” I wiped my hands on a towel, eyeing the steel parts already disassembled. “We'll keep it. That thing cost more than my first car.” She chuckled. “Fair enough.” Cass sat cross-legged on the floor, crayons scattered around him, carefully drawing on the back of a cardboard box. Every so often, he’d glance up at us, his little brow furrowed with a seriousness far beyond his age. He hadn't said much since we started packing. Just watched. I took it all in. I knew he had questions, he was just waiting for the right time to ask them. The air smelled like coffee and cinnamon, remnants of our last real baking batc
Damien Anderson was the first person to come into my office that morning. He walked with a gait that was much too funky for his age, and he had a smug look on his face. I hadn’t signed the documents yet —not until I reviewed the case owner profiles. From the looks of it, he was walking in with them now. Trust Anderson to always do the most in situations like this. It's why he was the leader of the legal team. I trusted him to get the job done, sometimes he did so a little too well. "Sir, I have the case files here," he said as I gestured for him to sit. "A simple email would've sufficed, Anderson," I said, taking the file for him and placing it on the desk in front of me. "You know me, I'm more of a traditional man." "Less talk about cultural preferences and more on efficiency." He sighed and then spoke. "Well, we won't be needing this anymore." "What do you mean?" "Their representative reached out. They're pulling out. They want to take the deal." "What?" "Th
Callie Life had a way of going on as if things were normal. As if the past week hadn't been terrible for us. People moving about their normal businesses, the sun still rising and setting despite the emotional turmoil we’d been facing. It was in the small things, like the hum of the fridge, the smell of cereal in the morning, Cass asking for the blue cup instead of the red one. Again. Because apparently, the red one made the juice taste weird. Cass had colour in his cheeks again. His appetite was back. After some slight adjustments to the medications he was taking he was doing just fine. The worst of it had passed. At least for now. Today was his first day back at daycare. “You remember what to do if you feel funny right?” I asked as we walked in. Cass nodded solemnly, backpack slung across both shoulders like a little soldier reporting for duty. The familiar smell of finger paint and carpet cleaner hit me the moment we stepped into the main hallway. The walls were
CallieCass was discharged by 01:45 in the afternoon.The paediatrician, whom I now knew as Dr. Gale, had been very kind to us throughout his stay at the pediatric ward. I was at his office with Cass, going over a few details and doctor's instructions before we finally checked out. “Now that he’s stable and we’ve got the medication sorted, his symptoms should progress significantly. Over time, we would need to put a follow-up plan in place,” he turned to Cass. “You’ll need to be vigilant, kiddo. Rest, hydration. Fewer stressors, if you can help it.”That sounded a lot. He was a four-year-old kid always getting into some shenanigans. The only way he’d be less active was if he felt physically tired. I might have to sit him down and explain this all over again in simpler, non-doctor terms to him. Cass sat quietly beside me, his little backpack clutched in his lap. He didn’t say much —just nodded when prompted and smiled when the nurse gave him a sticker.He was still in the clothes he