The closest I got was a light projector that spins to create patterns on the walls.
She’s curled up under her duvet, her red hair spilling across her pillow. I sit on the edge of the bed, reading aloud from our fantasy book. She’s probably too old to be getting read to, but it’s something we both enjoy. “Dad, can I ask you something?”
I mark the page with my finger. “Sure.”
“Do you still love Mum?”
My heart stops. Actually stops. Part of me expects to pass out.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I say slowly. “I do. But Mum...”
She frowns, like she’s thinking hard. “So, you’ll come home then?”
There’s hope in her voice, fragile, but it’s there.
I shake my head sadly. “No, Mum’s made her choice. I have to respect that. We need to carry on the best we can.”
She sits up and throws her arms around me, clinging to me as if she can hold the world together with sheer strength.
“I hate her,” she sobs. “She’s ruined everything. I want to stay here with you.”
I should tell her that’s not true.
I should tell her that her mother loves her.
I should tell her that she must split her time.
But it’s true—Ainsley has ripped the rug from under us and turned our lives upside down.
Right now, I hate her too.
***
The next morning, Hannah is eating cereal at the counter while Dog searches for whatever item he’s lost today. Bangs and crashes echo through the house.
“Where’s my left boot?” he calls from the hallway.
“Check your right foot,” I call back.
Silence. A few more bumps. Then… “Found it.”
Hannah giggles, spraying milk over the counter. Naturally, I pick up the cloth and wipe it away. I could get used to this. The three of us, living our lives. No arguments, no issues—just love, laughter, and hilarity.
When I step outside to put some rubbish in the trash, I freeze.
She’s there, the woman from the shop the day we moved. Then I saw her again in the bar, the day I knew Ainsley and I had no way back to each other. The pity on her face as she watched our rotten exchange told me she knew exactly what was going on. That she felt as uncomfortable as I did.
Now, she’s walking up the street, scarf tucked into her jacket, cheeks pink from the cold. The summer has turned out likeevery Scottish one does: more rain than rays. A familiar kind of discomfort I can guarantee.
She’s carrying a bag of animal feed that’s clearly too heavy for her, muttering to herself as she adjusts her grip, bouncing it from one arm to another, trying to spread the weight.
Her eyes rise briefly. Our gazes meet.
“Wrong turn,” she shouts.
“Cul-de-sac,” I call back, waving at the obvious dead end.
She smiles. I scold myself for being a jerk, pointing out the damn obvious. I stand there like an idiot, trash bag in hand, and watch her disappear around the corner then reprimand myself again for not even offering to help her. Too busy gawking for a reason I can’t name.