I stepped out into the warm mid-morning light, clutching the navy-blue leather notebook like it was made of velvet. I could feel the sun on my skin—a blanket of normalcy I hadn't felt in a while. Today was Dominic's birthday, and despite everything, I wanted the gift to reflect something meaningful. I touched the cover, picturing the words he might write inside.
I wandered through the city, lost in possibilities. Sometimes I peeked inside boutiques and lingered in window displays, but each time I'd shake my head. This notebook was different. Simple. Honest. A gift that fit him without shouting.
Just as I was about to scroll to the counter to pay, a voice—chill-dripped and familiar—cut through the quiet of that decision.
"Amira?"
I froze. The voice belonged to Lila.
My throat clamped shut. I turned. There she was—sunlight outlining her figure, lipstick smudged just so, arms crossed like a reincarnation of my worst memories.
She stepped forward, her smile something between contrite and calculating. "Hey… didn't expect to see you here."
I nodded, my heart slowing in response-not from relief, but from dread. How much had she watched? Lila hovered like a shadow I could not outrun.
She touched my arm, softly at first. "How've you been? I've been calling you… you've been ignoring me."
Her words felt like accusation disguised as concern. I didn't want to let her in, so I kept my tone light. "Busy."
She studied me for a moment, her gaze slipping past the notebook. "Are you… married now? To this Dominic guy?"
My stomach clenched. I'd faced rumors. I'd faced Jason. But Lila's reaction carried something else entirely. She arched a brow. "Must be nice, pretending with someone new… you don't have to actually be married to make Jason jealous, do you?"
I bristled. She was kissing the notebook, touching it as if wanting to snatch it. I lost my temper. "Don't start with me."
She flicked her hair, venom dripping in every inch. "Come on—my best friend turned trophy wife overnight. How did you convince him to go along with it? Slept your way to the top?"
My blood roared. I flung the notebook onto the floor. "You want to talk past? Let's do it."
Her eyes gleamed. "Oh, I want to do it—did you open your legs just so someone would acknowledge you?"
The words slithered in the air. Then, before I could think, I slapped her—hard. The smack echoed as she recoiled, hand flying to her cheek. She collapsed dramatically, legs splaying in a cartoonish fashion.
She rolled her head like she'd been struck by a truck. "My face—oh, my face!" she wailed, voice dripping melodrama. Eyes swivelled at bystanders. "Everyone, see what she's doing? She hit me! Just because she can't keep a man!"
A crowd formed quickly. Some murmured. Some stared. One cellphone rose.
I balanced on my heels, exhaling hard. "Let her loose," I muttered. "She'll tell anyone who'll listen whatever narrative helps her."
I stepped away, ignoring her cries. Pain swelled in my chest—not from the encounter, but from the hurt of her words. She'd cut me deeper than I expected.
I kept walking, oblivious to stares, to "Her slapping her in the street!" whispers. My vision blurred with unshed tears, but I held it together.
I hopped on an empty bus, nuzzled my face into a scarf, and stared at my reflection in the window. A reflection I didn't recognize: eyes rimmed raw, dress stained, hands trembling.
took a cab the rest of the way home, passing musician's street corners and fruit stalls, but I saw none of it. When I arrived, the front door stood wide, the hall lights blazing. Dominic and Claire were inside, voices hushed but strained.
I hesitated at the threshold, listening.
Claire spoke first, voice tight with hurt—not panic, but something deeper. "Don't you realize I'm fragile now? My health… I just want one day with my son."
Dominic's voice came next, tense. "Don't guilt-trip me with your mortality, Mom. I said no party."
Claire choked. "I'm not—"
He interrupted. "You want me to turn twenty-nine with a balloon and a cake and a flashing 'Last Year in My Twenties!' banner? I'm not a child."
Her response was a whisper cracked with emotion. "I just… wanted to celebrate you."
I swallowed. His pain echoed mine—familial disappointment, the weight of emotion misplaced.
Claire softened. "Okay. Maybe not balloons. But dinner? Cake?"
"I don't want your pity. I don't want your reminders of time I didn't get back."
The words stung. I pressed my hand to the doorframe.
Claire said quietly, "I asked Amira to talk to you."
A moment of silence. Then footsteps creaked.
She called softly: "Darling… come talk."
I stepped in, back to the hallway, letting them have their space. Claire looked at me only briefly and nodded—a small flicker of gratitude.
Dominic left the room, his footsteps sharp against polished floors. Claire sank onto a chair and closed her eyes.
She reached for my hand. "She needs to go after him. I can't—I'm too weak."
I squeezed
Half an hour later, the house held itself in stillness. Then I heard him—a soft rustle of shoes.
I turned. Dominic entered the room alone, athletic but drained. Not angry anymore—just tired.
Claire was gone. She'd retreated to plan a quiet dinner somewhere, and I'd slipped to the living room to let them speak.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He looked down. "I'm fine."
I gestured gently. "Claire asked me to talk to you." He looked uncomfortable.
"About? My birthday?"
"It's more…" My voice wavered. "She said she wants to spend time with you. She didn't expect you to host a gala."
He sighed, stared at the carpet. "She guilt-lands me. Mom's health… it feels like an anchor."
"I get that," I said softly. "I've been where you are."
He met my gaze, and I felt the world still.
"She told me your story," he said quietly. "About your father…"
My heart hammered. "I told her."
He nodded. "And you understand—"
"I do."
He sank onto the couch across from me. The air shimmered with memories. He stared at his hands, knuckles white.
"She tried to celebrate me today. I just… can't."
I said gently, "You can tell me why."
His voice cracked. "I was nine. And all the kids… they noticed I was different. No dad to walk me to school. No family man to brag about."
My chest seized.
"For the 'Bring Your Dad To School' day… I remember everyone bringing pops and smiling, except… me. I just found a spot outside. Felt silly going inside alone."
He looked distant, like he was watching from far away.
"A little girl came and sat beside me. Blonde pigtails. She asked me why I was sad. I didn't know how to say… it hurt to feel so small."
Tears brimmed in his eyes.
"She told me she doesn't have a mom, but she does have a dad—and he loves me too, if I want."
He chuckled, broken. "She brought me along. I met her daddy. We had juice boxes and cookies. And for one afternoon—I felt… part of a family."
My own voice caught. "That's beautiful."
He wiped his eyes. "I never even thought to tell Mom. That day lasted… maybe three hours. She never showed again. And the next year, there were no visits."
I reached across the coffee table and took his hand. "That girl… she just wanted to share something."
He looked at me, searching. His expression was small.
"I wonder… do you remember her name?"
He closed his eyes. "I never asked."
"So maybe she didn't have a name. But you knew what she gave you."
He nodded, quiet.
I squeezed his hand. "Claire invited me into your life. Into your story. Into your world."
He exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry I snapped at her."
"It's okay," I whispered.
He squeezed back.
By the time Claire emerged—carrying a small cake and a single candle—the room glowed in the soft light. Her health-scarred face split into a smile when she saw us sitting close, hands intertwined.
We put out the candle without fuss. She leaned into his side, kissing his cheek.
He hugged her gently, and I realized the house felt different now—not uninviting, but warm.
In that moment, I understood that love wasn't perfection. It was empathy. It was hearing stories unsaid. It was not pretending that grief didn't exist.
And when I blew out the candle, it wasn't for him. It was for all of us—past, present, future—together, maybe a little broken, but still believing.