My Ex's Boss is My Baby's Father のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 151 - チャプター 160

Leo came home on Thursday.He had said he would come after the trip, at the scheduled end of it, and instead he was at the front door at half past two on Thursday afternoon with his carry-on still over his shoulder and the particular look of someone who had been on a plane for twelve hours and had spent most of those hours thinking.Daniel opened the door and stood there for a moment."The meetings," he said."Rescheduled." Leo set his bag down in the hallway. "I know you said not to.""I said don't cancel them.""I rescheduled them. It's different." He looked at Daniel with the careful attention of someone who had been looking at a screen version of a person for eleven days and was now recalibrating to the real one. "Is this overwhelming?"Daniel considered the question honestly, which was the only way he knew how to consider things. "Yes," he said. "And necessary."Leo nodded. He came inside.Clara was at school. Matteo was at his Thursday afternoon programme. They had two hours of

The project arrived home in Clara's backpack on a Tuesday, three weeks into the new arrangement.It was a folded piece of pale blue card with MY FAMILY printed across the top in the teacher's handwriting, and below that a series of boxes with instructions: Draw the people in your family. Write their names. Write where they live. There was a second page with a longer prompt: Sometimes families look different from each other. Write about what makes your family special.Clara brought it to the kitchen table after school and spread it out with the focused attention she brought to important things, which was most things. She was six and small for it, with Leo's dark hair and Daniel's precise way of holding a pencil, and she had been sitting with the project for twenty minutes before she said anything.Leo was at the counter with his laptop, working through the transition documentation for the incoming CEO. He had been watching her think without letting her know he was watching."Papa," she

The nightmares started in the second week.Matteo had always been a sound sleeper, the kind of child who went down easily and stayed down, who woke in the mornings with the uncomplicated energy of someone who had no unfinished business with the night. He was four and solidly built and had Daniel's brown eyes and a laugh that came from somewhere deep and arrived without warning, and he had spent his whole life in a house where the routines were reliable and the people in them were present.The new arrangement was not a disaster for Matteo. It was something more specific than that: it was a disruption to the predictability that had been the architecture of his security, and the disruption was small enough that the adults around him had not immediately understood what it was costing him.The first nightmare, Leo went in at two in the morning to find Matteo sitting upright in his bed saying Daniel's name in the flat repeated way of a child still mostly asleep. Leo sat on the edge of the b

The house was on the Fife coast, north of Edinburgh, reached by a road that ran along the shoreline and narrowed toward the end into something that required genuine commitment. It had been recommended by Fiona from the archive, who had described it as honest, which turned out to mean: cold in the mornings until the heating caught up, windows that rattled when the wind came off the water, a kitchen with everything necessary and nothing decorative, a view of the Firth of Forth that made all of that irrelevant.They arrived on a Sunday afternoon in mid-December, the semester finished, Clara and Matteo left with Chloe and Lucien in London with the confidence of children who understood that being left with grandparents was not abandonment but a specific and reliable category of pleasure. Matteo had asked three times when they were coming back and had been shown the calendar and had crossed off the departure day with his crayon and had then gone to find Lucien with something urgent to tell

The studio in Mapo was on the fourth floor of a building that had been, at various points in its history, a printing house, a garment factory, and a storage facility for a company that imported Italian kitchen equipment. The current landlord had divided the upper floors into artist spaces and left the bones of the previous occupants visible: the original iron columns, the freight elevator that still worked if you held the gate closed with one hand while pressing the button with the other, the windows that ran the length of the north wall and produced the kind of flat consistent light that Emma had learned, across years of making work that depended on how light moved through fabric, to value above almost any other quality in a workspace.She had arrived in Seoul in September and it was now the second week of November and she had been working for eleven weeks on something that was either the best thing she had ever made or a catastrophic miscalculation, and most days she could not tell