A breeze stirred through the deck, cool against his skin, and he closed his eyes. In the quiet, he could almost hear Amanda’s laugh, faint and far away, like a ghost from another life. He remembered the sound of her heels tapping down the hallway, the way she used to hum while unpacking groceries, grounding their house in warmth.
Back then, he never questioned his role, his place in the world. Now, everything felt tentative, uncertain—like he was learning to walk all over again.
A part of him wanted to argue against it, to claim that he was simply being responsible, protecting Chloe, protecting himself. But deep down, he knew the truth. He wasn’t just being careful. He was running. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to anymore.
Later that afternoon, his phone buzzed again. This time, Claire’s name lit up the screen.
Hey! A few of us are taking a pottery class tomorrow night. Come be creative with us!
Jack stared at the message, his chest tightening. His gut reaction was to say no. Not because he didn’t want to go, but because it was easier that way. Easier to keep things from progressing, easier to maintain the distance he’d spent years crafting.
Before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers hovered over the screen. He imagined what would happen if he said yes—an evening of laughter, awkward clay creations, and Claire’s teasing smile that somehow made him feel seen. But then the other voice crept in, the one that warned him about stepping too far, too fast. What if he misread things? What if Chloe got attached and he couldn’t follow through? What if he did?
His chest tightened. Retreat was safer.
So, before he could talk himself out of it—out of safety—his fingers typed out a response.
Can’t. Busy. Have fun.
He hit send and immediately regretted it.
Jack tossed his phone aside, raking a hand through his hair with a sharp, frustrated sweep. The motion didn’t ease the tightness in his chest, the gnawing voice in his head that accused him of messing things up yet again.
Why did he always sabotage the things that mattered most? Frustration burned in his chest, a mix of self-reproach and something deeper he didn’t want to name. He pushed up from his chair, pacing along the deck, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The ocean stretched out before him, vast and unbothered, its waves crashing against the shore with rhythmic certainty—so unlike the turmoil spinning in his mind. He exhaled sharply, stopping at the railing to grip the wood, his knuckles white.
Why did he always do this? Why was it so much easier to retreat than to take a step forward? Why had he answered like that? He muttered under his breath, resisting the urge to grab his phone and type something different, something better.
But the message was already sent. The damage was done. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of his own hesitation pressing against his chest like a stone. He wasn’t busy. Not really. He had no excuse other than his own fear, and that realization sat like a weight in his chest.
That evening, as he tucked Chloe into bed, she looked up at him with bright eyes. “Dad, can we go to the beach with Claire and Gabe this weekend?”
Jack hesitated. “We’ll see, kiddo.”
Chloe frowned. “I like spending time with them. Claire’s really fun, and Gabe says his mom used to be bad at baking, but now she makes the best cookies ever.”
Jack smirked. “That so?”
Chloe nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! And I think you like Claire, too.”
Jack’s breath caught. “What makes you say that?”
Chloe shrugged, completely unaware of the impact of her words. “You smile more when she’s around.”
Jack sat there long after Chloe had fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling. His mind drifted to the way Claire had laughed at dinner, the way her presence had filled his home with something lighter, something he hadn’t realized was missing.
But then, just as quickly, another memory surfaced—Amanda’s laughter, echoing in the past, a stark reminder of what he had lost. He could still picture her standing in their old kitchen, playfully swatting at him with a dish towel, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The memory tightened his chest, the guilt creeping in like an old habit.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. Claire wasn’t Amanda. And that was the problem. Or maybe, that was the point.
The contrast twisted inside him, a tug-of-war between guilt and the undeniable pull toward something new. Was he ready for that? Would he ever be?
If even an eight-year-old could see what he refused to admit to himself, then maybe it was time to stop hiding from the question he feared most: what would happen if he let go of the past and reached for something real?
The next morning, Jack grabbed his phone before he could overthink it.
Claire—about that pottery class. Is there still room for one more?
