She took a photo of the note against her desktop—grainy wood background, soft lighting from the classroom windows. No filters. Just the truth of the moment.
Then she typed her caption:
Sometimes the kids say the things we grownups are afraid to admit.
Anger is easier. Anger protects.
But sadness is honest.
And asking for help while sad?
That’s courage, not weakness.
She stared at it for a breath, then hit post.
There. Out in the world.
Not everyone would get it. Not everyone would care.
But someone might.
And that was enough.
CHAPTER 18
Dean
The apartment was too quiet.
No Fiona humming to herself in the kitchen.
No soft socked steps padding down the hall.
No clatter of her keys in the bowl by the door, or the whisper of pages turning as she read curled up on the couch.
Just the glint of her wedding ring on the entry table—small, final.
He couldn’t bring himself to move it.
He stood in the kitchen and stared blankly at the open cabinet. Reached for two mugs. Caught himself.
Set one back.
The kettle clicked off behind him.
He glanced at his phone, then turned it face-down again. Fiona hadn’t texted. Hadn’t responded to any of his apology messages.
He opened his laptop. Maybe work would distract him. Maybe a slide deck would make the ache shrink.
But the tabs he left open were still there: analytics, branding briefs… and the @shitfionasays dashboard.
Dean closed the laptop. Pushed it away. Rested his forehead against the table and let the weight of the empty apartment settle over him like fog.
He feltitchy under his skin. Like there was something he was supposed to be doing, some lever he should be pulling to fix this. Fix her. Fixthem.
That’s what he did. Dean fixed things. He was good at problems. Clients came to him with chaos and he spun it into clarity. Strategy. Deliverables.
He grabbed a pad of yellow legal paper from the drawer near the phone. His hands were already moving before he had a plan. Just that old, instinctive reflex:
