Sally's POV
The morning sunlight streams through my bedroom window, painting everything in warm golden hues. I stretch languidly, savoring this moment of peace. For the first time in years, I feel genuinely free.
No more tiptoeing around Billy's volatile moods. No more rushing to prepare his breakfast before he storms out the door, critiquing everything I do.
A bitter thought intrudes on my newfound serenity. Is Billy even thinking about me right now? Probably not. He's likely already moved Chelsea into our old apartment, into my bed. She's probably cooking his eggs just the way he likes them, playing the perfect girlfriend.
I shake my head sharply, tossing off the covers. I refuse to waste precious mental energy on Billy today. This is my fresh start, and I won't let him poison it.
"Morning, Mummy," Warren mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles, still in his favorite superhero pajamas.
"Good morning, baby. How did you sleep?" I ask, spooning fluffy scrambled eggs onto our plates alongside golden buttered toast.
"Really good. My new bed feels like sleeping on a giant marshmallow," he says, climbing onto the breakfast bar stool with a contented sigh.
"Perfect. After we eat, we can explore the neighborhood before we visit your new school."
I pour fresh orange juice into two glasses, watching Warren dig into his breakfast with enthusiasm. His appetite has returned since we left Billy's constant tension behind.
Once we finish eating and get dressed, we head to the local park. The playground sits empty under the mid-morning sun, all the other children already in their classrooms. The peaceful quiet feels like a luxury.
I give Warren gentle pushes on the swing, then stand guard as he conquers the slide repeatedly. When he spots the monkey bars, his eyes light up with determination, and my stomach clenches with worry.
"Those look pretty high, sweetheart," I say cautiously.
But Warren is already marching toward them with single-minded focus. I know that look. There's no deterring him now.
He grips the first bar with both hands, his small fingers barely wrapping around the metal.
"Remember to swing your body forward to build momentum," I coach, positioning myself directly beneath him.
"I can do this," he mutters, more to himself than to me.
He releases one hand and reaches for the second bar, muscles straining. His fingers find their target, and he dangles there for a moment, breathing hard.
"Excellent! You're doing great," I encourage, ready to catch him if he falls.
Warren swings toward the third bar with determined grunting, but his timing is off. His fingertips brush the metal before gravity pulls him down. I catch him easily, steadying him on his feet.
"That was incredible for your first try. You just need to pace yourself," I say gently.
His face crumples with frustration. He stomps back to the beginning, jaw set stubbornly. This time, he doesn't even reach the second bar before his grip fails.
"This stupid thing is impossible!" he shouts, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Warren, breathe. It's okay to feel frustrated, but yelling won't help," I soothe.
"No, it's not okay!" he wails, throwing himself onto the rubberized ground, fists pounding, legs thrashing.
"Shh, I know you're upset. But tantrums won't make you stronger," I say, kneeling beside his writhing form.
This meltdown doesn't surprise me. After days of upheaval and change, he was bound to crack under the pressure eventually.
"Easy there, little wolf," a deep, familiar voice cuts through Warren's crying.
Instantly, my son stops flailing. His breathing slows, and he sits up, wiping his tear-streaked face.
I turn toward the voice, and my world tilts on its axis.
Those eyes. Those impossibly blue eyes that have haunted my dreams for years.
Karl.
My heart hammers against my ribs as our gazes lock. Recognition flashes across his features before confusion takes over. His attention shifts to Warren, and something unreadable crosses his expression.
"Sorry for interrupting," he says, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm Philip."
"Philip?" I repeat, my voice barely a whisper.
This can't be happening. He looks exactly like Karl - the same strong jawline, the same athletic build, even the same way of holding his shoulders. But something is different. Wrong.
"Philip Blake," he clarifies, extending his right hand toward me.
I search his palm desperately for the small crescent-shaped birthmark Karl always had near his thumb. Nothing. The skin is unmarked.
How is this possible? How can someone be Karl's exact double but not be him?
"I'm Sally, and this is Warren," I manage to say.
Before I can take his offered hand, Warren bounces to his feet and throws his arms around Philip's waist in an impulsive embrace.
Philip chuckles warmly, ruffling Warren's hair like they're old friends. My son never acts this way with strangers, especially men. He's usually shy, reserved, clinging to my side.
Does Warren sense something I'm missing? Some genetic connection calling to him?
Karl grew up in foster care, never knowing his biological family. Could Philip be a twin he never knew existed? But what are the astronomical odds that I'd encounter them both?
I gently pull Warren away from this stranger, making a mental note to discuss appropriate boundaries with him later.
"Are you two settling in well?" Philip asks, his tone genuinely interested.
"We just moved here from down south," I explain carefully. "What about you? Are you a local?"
"Been here about four years now. Do you have family in the area?"
"My sister attends the university in the next town. We wanted to be closer to her."
"That's nice. Is your husband adjusting to the move too?" he asks, glancing at my left hand.
My stomach drops as I realize I'm still wearing my wedding ring. I quickly slip it off and shove it into my back pocket.
"Actually, it's just Warren and me now," I say quietly.
"I'm sorry to hear that. If you need any help getting oriented, I'd be happy to show you around. We have great schools and some fantastic local restaurants," he offers with a smile that makes my pulse quicken.
"Thanks, but we're actually heading to the school now for enrollment," I reply.
"Perfect timing. I'm heading there too. Mind if I walk with you?"
"That would be nice. Do you work there?" I ask as we start walking.
"I run athletic programs for some of the more energetic students," he explains.
"Will you teach me sports?" Warren asks eagerly.
"Absolutely. What's your favorite?"
"I don't know yet. My old teachers said I was too rough to play with the other kids."
"Well, that won't be an issue here. We have plenty of strong kids who need good coaching. Did your father teach you any sports?"
"I don't have a dad yet. But maybe he'll find me someday," Warren says with heartbreaking optimism.
"I'm sure he will," Philip says softly, shooting me an apologetic glance.
I can see questions forming in his eyes, but thankfully he doesn't voice them.
At the school, Philip guides us to the main office before disappearing to find the principal. Minutes later, a petite woman with short blonde hair and kind brown eyes approaches us.
To my complete shock, Warren immediately wraps her in another spontaneous hug.
What is happening to my son? First with Philip, now with this complete stranger. Is he desperately seeking the stability we lost when we left Billy? Or is something deeper at work here?