Something about the scene felt intimate. Domestic. Right. Like this could have been us for the past four years, having quiet dinners at the table, feeding a daughter we both cared for.
But Ivy wasn’t my child, and I didn’t even know what Hudson wanted from me—if anything. He seemed so guarded against me, and I couldn’t blame him. Not after every name I’d called him. Every vile thing I’d said. All the accusations I levied at him.
I watched him as he took slow bites of the chicken, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enjoy it.
Jesus.
What had he been going through all this time?
And how had I not seen it before?
Blinded by my own rage.
Hudson caught me staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” But inside, everything was shifting.
Because this man who used to be mine—maybe still was, in ways I didn’t want to admit—was barely holding it together.
After dinner, Hudson dished out the ice cream. Twoscoops with sprinkles on top for Ivy. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the living room. I sat on the one decent-looking couch, and she climbed straight into my lap like she belonged there, melting into my chest as if this had always been our routine. She pointed at the TV and requested some cartoon I’d never heard of.
“All right, sweetheart. Here you go.”
A domestic Hudson was never something I’d thought I would see, but he was so patient with his daughter. He found the cartoon, hit Play, tucked a bib into Ivy’s shirt, and gave her the bowl of ice cream.
“Does this bother you?” He gestured to Ivy sitting on my lap.
“No, she’s good. I don’t mind watching cartoons.”
“She’ll get ice cream all over you.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“Umm, all right, then. I’ll wash up. Call me if you get bored of entertaining her.”
He looked reluctant as he walked out of the living room. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept poking his head in to check on us.
“Look, Maaaah!” Ivy grabbed my face with a sticky hand and turned it toward the TV. She launched into chatter about the cartoon, and I understood maybe half of what she said while sweeping my gaze over the living room.
The space wasn’t a mess, not by a long shot. It was tidy in the way a space was when someone took pride in what little they had. But the wallpaper was peeling in one corner, and the paint above the window frame was cracked, like maybe there’d been a leak. The rug was fraying at the edges. The couch groaned every time I shifted. And the TV… damn. Did they make that model anymore?
But Ivy? She looked happy. Safe. Like she didn’t care thatthe place wasn’t fancy. She giggled and leaned into me with her sticky fingers, and I could see how hard Hudson tried. She was obviously well loved.
Ivy finished her ice cream with a triumphant slurp. Hudson wasn’t wrong. We were both sticky from the sweet treat.
“Let me bring this to Daddy.” I took the bowl from her and placed her on the couch. She was so focused on the cartoon that she didn’t register me leaving.
Hudson was at the sink, wiping down the counters with a dishrag, methodical and quiet. But the way he paused midswipe and pressed a hand to his lower back told me enough. He was tired.
I stepped into the doorway. “You always eat like that?”
He looked up. “Like what?”
“Ramen.”
A small, crooked smile. “It’s cheap. Fast.”
“You gave me the better plate.”
