I swipe at my eyes, forcing my voice steady. "I need to get ready. I'm supposed to meet Blake and the kids at a breakfast-with-Santa-thing."
The ache flickers across his features. It's quick but unmistakable. The silent devastation of being excluded from exactly the kind of family ritual he craves. He wants to be the father watching his son sit on Santa's lap, experiencing the magic of Christmas through his eyes.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Could I—" He stops, clears his throat. "Would it be okay if I came, too?"
The question is soft, almost pleading.
My heart twists painfully in my chest. Part of me wants to say yes, wants to pretend none of this happened, and to experience this together with our son.
But the other part, the wounded part, remembers those custody papers with his perfect handwriting across the top.
"That can't happen, Warren." I shake my head slowly.
The words cut both ways. Saying no isn't the easy thing. It isn't what I want. But I can't parade him up there in front of my family after everything that's happened. I can't trust him just because he told me what I've always wanted to hear.
Not to mention, my heart can't take much more heartbreak. Like he said a few minutes ago before he left out the front door, this isn't about me. It's about protecting his right with Beckett.
Warren nods, clearly trying to mask the sting, but his eyes betray everything. The hurt settles there, dark and heavy. "I understand."
He doesn't move. Instead, he stands there looking lost, like a man who's reached for something precious only to have it slip through his fingers.
"I don't want to lose you. Us. I know I can fight you in court, but I don't want to. I know I made the first shot, but…"
"We can't take back what we've done. There are no re-do's."
As I turn toward the door, making myself walk away before I throw myself into his arms, Warren speaks again, softer this time. "I'll tear up the petition. I'll notify the court that I want to withdraw."
I pause, my hand on the doorknob. I don't turn around because if I do, I will lose all strength.
"That's your move, Counselor," I say, and push it open, closing it behind me. My heart pounds like I’ve just surrendered and struck a blow all at once. I was a nanosecond away from throwing myself into his arms. I needed a closed door between us, because I'm not strong enough.
Through the side window, I watch him stand there, unmoving, staring at the closed door like he's hoping I'll come back.
I won't. I can't.
I move over, willing him to leave, to be stronger than me.
The screen door creaks, and then I hear it snap shut.
He's gone.
I scroll to Warren's message thread, thumb hovering over his name. How many times have I done this dance over the years? First in Chicago, staring at my phone screen until my eyes burned, waiting for a response that never came.
Now here, with too many words between us instead of none.
He says he'll tear up the petition.
He says he wants to choose us.
The problem is that Warren's words have always been beautiful. It's his actions that cut me open.
I close my eyes, staring at his name. Images flash behind my eyelids.
I'll call you later, when I get home.
I send the text before I can stop myself. Maybe I will.
Maybe I won’t. But for right now in this moment, it’s the closest I can come to forgiveness.