And the community art wall—Claire could already see Chloe and Gabe giggling with paintbrushes in hand, their strokes wild and bright as they left behind pieces of their joy for all to see.
Gabe’s laugh rang out behind her, and she turned to watch him running along the shore with Chloe, their sneakers forgotten somewhere in the dunes. Derek stood at a distance, arms crossed, his stance uncertain yet softened by a flicker of vulnerability, a cautious smile on his face. Claire noticed the way his foot tapped anxiously against the sand, and the way he leaned slightly toward Gabe as if caught between wanting to jump in and holding himself back.
A few feet away, she caught the end of their exchange—Gabe laughing, then saying, "You remember that, Dad?"—and Derek's soft, almost surprised chuckle in return. The sound tugged at something in her chest. He was trying—Claire could see that now. The supervised visits had turned into easy, hour-long outings. He didn’t try to overstep. He hadn’t asked personal questions. In truth, Derek looked like someone trying to make peace with the time he’d lost.
As she stood, brushing sand from her jeans, Chloe rushed over, cheeks flushed and hair windblown.
“Claire! Gabe says his dad lets him eat whipped cream straight from the can,” Chloe announced, scandalized.
Claire smirked. “That sounds like a special occasion kind of treat.”
“Can Dad do that too when he gets home?”
“I’m sure Jack has some culinary rebellion in him,” Claire replied, laughing.
They strolled back toward the community center, the laughter of the children echoing between them like wind chimes in a soft breeze. Chloe and Gabe giggled, debating whether Jack or Claire made better pancakes, their voices filled with the kind of honest, silly joy only children could share.
Derek was waiting with a pair of melting cones. Gabe took one and gave Chloe a proud, sticky-nosed grin.
Claire stayed a few paces behind, her thoughts briefly drifting as she watched Gabe take the cone from Derek without hesitation. Just a few months ago, the idea of such a moment would’ve seemed impossible.
Now, the ease in their interaction made her wonder if maybe—finally—there was room to move forward without carrying the weight of guilt. Moving forward would mean embracing the life she had now without constantly measuring it against the pain of the past. It meant trusting the new memories, allowing joy to be just joy, and believing that forgiveness—for herself as much as for Derek—wasn’t betrayal, but healing.
Not that everything was perfect, but perhaps healing didn’t need to be loud. Maybe it simply needed to be steady—quiet steps, gentle rhythms, and moments that stitched comfort into the everyday.
Sometimes, it just needed a quiet afternoon, an offered ice cream, and a little boy’s laugh to stitch old wounds into something new.
Observing them now, her heart ached a little—not in the painful, heavy way it used to when she thought about her past, but in that bittersweet, you’re-growing-into-something-new kind of way.
After dinner, while Chloe helped Claire tidy up the dishes and made them each a cup of chamomile tea, the house slowly settled into a calm hush. Later that evening, with Gabe asleep and Chloe reading quietly at the kitchen table, Claire sat on her porch steps and stared at the horizon.
The last of the sunset had left the sky blushed with lavender. Her hand drifted to the glass bottle resting beside her chair. She remembered the afternoon she’d spotted it glinting in the tide like a secret waiting to be found, the feel of wet sand beneath her knees as she reached for it, heart fluttering with a strange mix of curiosity and hope. That moment had felt like the beginning of something—an unopened chapter sealed in glass.
She’d cleaned the sand off earlier that week, carefully pried out the cork, and tucked Jack’s handwritten note safely into a keepsake box. The message had been short but steadying.
Wherever this floats, know you were always the map I followed.
It had made her cry when she first read it. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it felt like truth—something steady to hold onto in the ebb and flow of everyday life.
Claire had reread Jack’s earlier texts, noticing how his tone had shifted over time—from practical updates to warmer, more reflective words. That transformation echoed in the handwritten message, affirming the growing closeness between them even in his absence.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Jack.
Just finished up another consult. One more tomorrow, then home. I miss you. I miss us.
She replied quickly, heart catching in her chest.
We’re here. Your map is waiting.
The next day, Claire took the kids to the harbor market, where stalls overflowed with fresh flowers, handmade trinkets, and sun-warmed pastries. Gabe picked out a keychain for his dad and one for Jack—a tiny wooden boat carved from driftwood—and Chloe selected a polished blue stone for her dad.
“They’ll be surprises,” Chloe whispered to Claire. “For when he gets back.”
Claire couldn’t stop smiling. She imagined the kids plotting where to hide their surprises—maybe beneath the porch steps or tucked behind the kitchen spice rack. Chloe would definitely have a speech prepared. Gabe might just thrust his gift into Jack’s hands with a shy grin. The thought warmed her, anchoring her in the moment.
At the last booth, Chloe nudged Gabe and whispered something, her eyes wide with conspiratorial excitement. He nodded, and together they handed Claire their small treasures with the kind of trust that made her chest tighten.
“Can we put them all in one?” Chloe asked, holding out the burlap pouch from one of the vendors. “Like a treasure chest—but for when Dad comes home.”
