“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“I want to hold space for both of you right now. Not just as individuals grieving what was lost, but as two people who arestill here. Still breathing. Still capable of transformation. You don’t have to agree on how you got here…but you do have to be honest about where you are.”
Adair stared down at his hands.
“I’m in hell…I’m not asking for pity. I’m not even asking to be taken back but if there was a world where I could crawl back through time…back through every moment I ignored her voice, every time I didn’t answer the phone, didn’t hold her when she asked…I’d do it. I’d burn through every breath in my body to change that night.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to push out death and then hold it. And still…still call you.”
Adair’s lip trembled. “I’d give my life to take that night from you.”
Sabine inhaled sharply. Her arms folded tighter, like if she let go, everything would pour out. Pie watched them both with rooted stillness.
“What if,” she said softly, “this space could be the start of something different? Not a reconciliation. Not a quick fix but a release.”
Sabine looked up.
“Release doesn’t mean forget,” Pie continued. “It means making room. For peace. For truth. For the things you never got to say because other things just so happen to always come first.”
Adair swallowed. “Then let me say this…I’m sorry, Bine. I’m so sorry baby. Not the kind of sorry that you pat on the head and move past. But the kind of sorry that cracks your chest open and leaves you bleeding vulnerably. The sorry that my ego isn’t attached to. I’m sorry for breaking your heart. For not answering the phone. For letting you go through the worst moment of your life without me. I failed you. As a husband. As a father. As a man.” He leaned forward. “If it would bring her back…if it wouldmean you never felt that kind of pain again…I’d trade places. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Sabine’s face broke then—just a little. Her bottom lip quivered, but she bit down hard, shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to erase it by wishing you could.”
“I’m not trying to erase it,” he said quickly. “I’m trying to hold it. With you. If you’ll let me.”
The silence afterward was heavy. Heavier than any of them could carry within their arms—then finally Sabine let go. She cried—deep, broken sobs that shook her entire frame. She wept for Ariyah. For herself. For every unanswered call and every night spent pacing with swollen ankles and a bruised heart. For the silence. For the betrayal. For the fact that she was still here, even after all of it. Her hands covered her face, her body curling inward as if trying to shrink from the weight of everything she’d finally said aloud. The sound of her grief filled the room, raw and unapologetic. She didn’t hide it this time.
Adair didn’t move at first. His jaw clenched, his throat working through the impossible tightness there. Then, slowly, he looked over at Dr. Pie who gave him a subtle nod and without hesitation he rose, closing the space between them. He knelt beside her, not touching her yet, just letting his presence be the first thing she felt.
Then he reached for her. She didn’t lean into him at first. She stiffened. Fought it but when his arms wrapped around her, when he buried his face into the side of her neck and whispered, “I’m so sorry,” over and over, something in her broke open again. She hit him.
First on the shoulder. Then his chest. Small fists pounding once. Twice. Then again, as the tears doubled and her voice cracked with something between rage and devastation.
“You weren’t there,” she cried. “You were never fucking there when I needed you.”
“I know,” he whispered, tightening his hold. “I know, baby. I know.”
“I screamed your name while pushing our daughter out, and you didn’t come.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, Sabine. I would give my own life to go back. I swear to God.”
Sabine kept sobbing, choking on her own breath between every word and he just held her. He didn’t stop her hands. Didn’t try to soothe her with words she hadn’t asked for. He just stayed there, solid and still, taking every hit. Every curse. Every broken cry.
Dr. Pie didn’t interrupt. She let the moment stretch. Let it do what it was meant to do. Sabine eventually collapsed fully into him, her face buried in his shoulder, her hands gripping his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth and still, Adair didn’t let go.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
When her sobs finally quieted to shudders, Dr. Pie leaned forward slightly. “What you just did,” she said gently, “wasn’t small. That was the grief. The rage. The part of you that needed someone to witness your pain without trying to fix it.”
Sabine didn’t lift her head, but her fingers tightened in Adair’s shirt.
“And Adair,” Pie continued, “you didn’t justify it. You didn’t redirect it. You received it. That is how repair begins.”
Adair nodded against Sabine’s shoulder, tears still slipping quietly down his face.
“This room is just a start,” Pie said. “You won’t leave here whole but you will leave lighter because now someone else is holding the truth with you.”
Sabine let out one last shaky breath. Adair kissed the side of her head. “I’ll never let go of you again without a fight. I swear baby.”