All Chapters of The Fathers of My Child?: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

#Dorothy’s POV#The paper-and-dust smell hits me first and I swear I can still taste him on my tongue; the door chime sings and my chest does a weird flutter like I'm both shy and greedy at the same time. My mind is still on the kitchen and my husband’s mouth and how I almost forgot how to breathe. It's stupid and sweet. I'm walking into a bookstore like I'm coming up for air. So I stand there at the mat, pressing my palm to my belly because I like feeling grounded like that. I tell myself to be normal for five minutes, to just be a person who buys tea and listens to people read, and not someone who survived a marriage contract, a diagnosis, and a city’s gossip machine with my name in its mouth.It's downtown and it's small. The kind of bookstore that stacks chairs between tall shelves and has a crooked stage made out of two platforms pushed together. There are string lights and a chalkboard that says OPEN MIC — 7PM — 5 MINUTES EACH — BE GENTLE. Someone’s kid is playing with a paper c

#Joel’s POV#The afternoon light hits the villa’s garden in that slow, golden way that makes everything look softer than it is. I’m down on one knee near the flowerbeds, dirt pressed into my palms, finishing the last corner of the renovation I’ve been working on since she left for Boston three weeks ago. Back then it was half-dead plants, broken fencing, the bench so warped it squeaked when you sat on it. Now… it’s almost the garden I remember from before chemo took over our lives.I place the last pot of marigolds into the soil, patting the earth down around them. My mind isn’t just here… half of it is still at the clinic this morning, hearing Malik’s words echo like they’d been branded into me: She survived. I keep hearing them, but I still need something physical, something here at home, to prove it. That’s why this garden matters. Because this is where she used to sit with her tea before the treatments, before the sickness made her skin pale and her shoulders hunch. This is where

#Joel’s POV#The bell above the antique bookstore door gives a tired little jingle when I push it open, like it hasn’t been touched in weeks. The air inside smells like paper and dust and something floral.I’ve been walking around downtown without much of a plan. I told myself I came here for errands, but that’s a lie. The truth is, I wanted to find something for her. Not flowers or jewelry, not anything that screams Joel Hernandez the businessman. Something that feels like her.The shelves here are uneven, leaning with age, lined with books whose covers are frayed at the edges. My shoes sound too loud on the wooden floor. There’s an elderly man at the counter with her head bent over a crossword puzzle. He looks up once when I enter, nods, and goes back to scribbling in his paper.I trail my fingers along the spines, half-reading faded titles, not sure what I’m looking for until I see it—thin, burgundy cover, gold letters still faintly visible. Leaves and Shadows.My chest tightens be

#Joel’s POV#The kitchen smells like burnt toast and dish soap, which isn’t the worst way to start a morning, except I know I’m the reason for one of those smells. I’m standing in front of the stove, staring down at a pan of eggs that are sticking stubbornly to the bottom like they’re staging a protest. The spatula scrapes and I try to convince myself maybe they’re just “crispy” and not actually ruined.Dorothy is sitting at the island, legs tucked up on the stool, hair loose and slightly messy from sleep. She’s been watching me silently, like she’s waiting to see if this turns into a crime scene. I feel her eyes on me, the way she sometimes does, like she’s not sure whether I’m about to fix something or break it worse.“You’re… burning them,” she says finally, voice flat but edged with that quiet amusement she tries to hide.“They’re fine,” I tell her, even though smoke is starting to curl up. I flick the heat off, give the pan one last scrape, and instantly regret it. Half the egg i

#Dorothy’s POV#The first thing I notice when I wake up is the tray beside me. A proper breakfast tray, with a white porcelain plate, a folded cloth napkin, toast, and a little bowl of sliced fruit. Steam curls from the mug of coffee like it’s trying to lure me closer. I blink at it for a long moment, not moving yet, because it takes me a second to remember where I am, to remember last night, to remember that Joel and I didn’t go to bed angry. We didn’t exactly go to bed happy either, but… not angry.I glance toward the doorway, expecting maybe to see him leaning against it, watching me notice. But he’s not there. The curtains are half open, letting in the pale morning light that makes everything in the room feel softer than it is. I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket up around me because the air feels a little cold against my skin. The toast is still warm when I pick it up.It’s such a small thing—breakfast in bed—but I know Joel. He’s not really a “small gesture” man. If he does som