In that moment—watching her son under the same sky they once danced beneath waiting on a gender reveal—Sabine realized something. She wasn’t done healing.
But she wasn’t broken either.
ADAIR
Adair sat in his car outside Sabine's house, engine off, hands gripping the wheel like he was trying to stop himself from something. He'd been out here for ten minutes. Maybe more. The street was quiet, except for the occasional bark of a dog. His phone buzzed twice and he didn’t check it. He wasn’t here for distractions. He was here because he owed her more than what he’d given her.
He’d pushed her.
The moment played in his head over and over. No matter how many times he tried to downplay it—tried to call it a reaction or say he hadn’t meant it—the truth stayed the same. He’d put his hands on the mother of his children. There was no excuse for that. No rewinding it, no justifying it. And the sick part was, it wasn’t even the first hurt. Just the last straw.
Sabine never really got true closure or healing from any of it. Not from the cheating. Not from the disappearing act. Not from his lies. Soon as she left him, they tried to find their way back to each other, dragging themselves through half-fixes and late-night conversations that always ended the same way.
Adair rubbed his hands together and blew out a breath, as if that would cool the guilt burning in his chest. He hadn’t come tobeg. He wasn’t expecting forgiveness, and he damn sure wasn’t expecting a hug or a tearful reunion. He just needed to tell her the truth. All of it. The version he used to lie to himself about. The version she deserved.
He stepped out the car slowly, shutting the door with a soft click. Her porch light was still on, even though the sun had already started its descent behind the trees. He climbed the steps while his heart was on edge. He didn’t know if she’d open the door, let alone let him speak.
But she did.
Sabine looked surprised to see him. Like she hadn’t expected him to show up in person. Her expression flickered between confusion, wariness, and something else he couldn’t name. Not hate but definitely not softness either.
“It’s my week with him.”
“I know…I…I just need a minute,” he said. His voice wasn’t commanding, wasn’t cocky. It was leveled. Tired. Real. She hesitated, then stepped aside.
The house was clean, calm. Lived-in. He saw Ade’s toys pushed against the corner, a blanket folded neatly on the couch. He remembered buying that couch together. Back when they thought forever was still possible.
They sat. A cushion apart.
Silence.
And then he said it.
“I’m sorry,” he released and Sabine’s eyes didn’t leave him. She waited. Like she needed more. “For the party,” he continued. “For pushing you. For everything, really. All the ways I hurt you. Old and new.”
Her arms were folded. She blinked, slow. “You shouldn’t have come here if you were just gonna say sorry forthat. All your sorry’s are just sorry’s.”
“I know.”
“You said sorry before and?—”
“I lied before.” That got her. She turned her head a little, her arms dropping. “I told you that I wasn’t with her that night. That it was all just—” he stopped himself from repeating excuses. “At the end of the day, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t with you. Or Ade. I wasn’t answering my phone…I was with Corrine.”
Sabine’s inhale was sharp but silent. Her throat moved, but she didn’t speak.
He continued. “I was drunk. It was late. I didn’t think you’d need me that night, I didn’t even think—” he caught himself, shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. I made the choice and you went through all of that alone. You gave birth to our daughter, Sabine. Alone.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I screamed your name,” she said quietly. “I kept calling. Pam was trying to find you. Narri and my sister were on FaceTime?—”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what that night did to me. What ittookfrom me.”
“And I will never forgive myself for that.”
Her jaw tightened. “You don’t get to center your guilt. That’s not what this is about.”
“You’re right.”