The ride to Joan’s house was quiet, my mother dozing against Dad’s shoulder in the backseat while I sat up front beside the driver. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t help noticing how naturally Dad supported my mother, his arm gentle but secure around her shoulders, his expression tender as he watched her sleep.
When we arrived, Andrew helped my mother upstairs to her bedroom while I followed slowly behind, my pregnant body making the climb more challenging than I cared to admit.
As Andrew settled my mother on the bed, adjusting pillows behind her back with practiced ease, I found myself wondering about their life before—before the gambling, before the abandonnt. Had they always been this in tune with each other?
"I’ll go get your dications," Andrew said, pressing a kiss to my mother’s forehead. "You rest."
My mother caught his hand. "Stay," she pleaded softly. "Just a little longer."
I stepped forward. "I can get the dications," I offered. "You stay with Mom, Dad." The word ca easier the second ti, and the gratitude in Andrew’s eyes was worth the montary awkwardness.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don’t mind."
I shook my head. "It’s fine. I need to move around a bit anyway. The twins get restless if I sit too long."
"Thank you, Diane," my mother said, her eyes warm with understanding.
As I turned to go, Andrew added, "I was thinking I might make so lunch for us all. Would that be alright?"
The hesitancy in his voice...this powerful businessman seeking permission to cook in what was technically not even my house...touched sothing in . "That would be nice," I said. "There’s not much in Joan’s fridge, though."
"I’ll work with whatever’s there," he promised. "My specialty is making sothing wonderful out of very little."
I nodded and headed downstairs, retrieving the dications from the bag Andrew had placed on the kitchen counter. As I filled a glass with water to take upstairs, I watched through the kitchen doorway as Andrew surveyed the contents of Joan’s refrigerator with the serious concentration of a chef preparing for a high-stakes competition.
There was sothing both comical and endearing about seeing him roll up the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt, ready to cobble together a al from Joan’s sparse bachelor supplies. This man—my father—was full of contradictions. The high-powered executive who could command a room with his presence, now playing caretaker with obvious joy.
Upstairs, I gave my mother her dications and the water, then settled into the chair beside her bed.
"He’s trying so hard," my mother observed quietly, following my gaze toward the door where Andrew had disappeared. "He always was a good cook, you know. Before everything happened."
"I didn’t know that," I admitted.
She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. "Oh yes. Sunday mornings were his domain. He’d make these amazing breakfasts...pancakes with fresh berries, eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles. You would sit at the counter on booster seats, helping sprinkle toppings." Her smile faded slightly. "You were so young when he left. I don’t suppose you rember any of that?"
I shook my head. "Not really. Just... impressions. Feelings more than mories."
"He loved you girls so much," she said softly. "That never changed, even when everything else did."
I wasn’t quite ready to fully accept that version of the past, but I nodded anyway. "Get so rest, Mom. I’ll go see if he needs any help downstairs."
As I turned to leave, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen—an unfamiliar number with our city’s area code. "Hello?" I answered, stepping into the hallway to avoid disturbing my mother.
"Mrs. Ashton? This is Detective Caleb with the city police departnt."
My heart rate quickened. "Yes?"
"I’m calling about the report you filed so weeks ago regarding a man following you and your attorney."
"Yes, thank you for calling back so quickly."
"We’ve been investigating based on the description provided by the café owner and the photos you gave us," the detective continued. "We traced the suspect to an address on the east side of town."
"You found him?" I asked, hope rising.
"Not exactly," Detective Caleb said grimly. "The location was an abandoned building being used as a temporary base. The suspect appears to have fled, but..." he hesitated.
"But what?" I prompted, a chill running down my spine.
"We found sothing concerning. A photograph of you pinned to the wall with a red X drawn across your face. No fingerprints, no evidence of who this person is or who might have hired them. It appears to be professionally done...soone who knows how to avoid leaving traces."
My free hand instinctively moved to protect my belly. "What does this an? Am I in danger?"
"We’re taking this very seriously, Mrs. Ashton. Can you think of anyone who might wish you harm? Anyone with a vendetta against you?"
"My husband," I replied without hesitation. "Liam Ashton."
"We’ll be speaking with Mr. Ashton, of course," Detective Caleb assured . "In the anti, I strongly recomnd you take precautions. Avoid being alone and stay in secure locations."
"I understand," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you for letting know."
As I ended the call, I realized Andrew was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a concerned expression on his face.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
I descended the stairs slowly, one hand on the banister for support. "That was the police," I explained, keeping my voice low so my mother wouldn’t overhear. "They’ve been investigating the man who followed and Joan this so week ago."
Andrew’s expression darkened. "What did they say?"
I repeated the detective’s information, watching as anger and concern battled for dominance on my father’s face.
"I can call the police chief," he offered imdiately. "Put pressure on them to fast-track this investigation."
I shook my head. "I appreciate that, but let’s let them handle it their way for now. I don’t want to complicate things." Changing the subject, I gestured toward the kitchen. "How’s lunch coming along?"
Andrew gave a look that said he knew exactly what I was doing but would allow it. "I’ve managed to create sothing from Joan’s bachelor supplies. Nothing fancy, but it should be nutritious."
I followed him into the kitchen, where he’d sohow transford Joan’s ager ingredients into what looked like a respectable al—vegetable sauce simring in a pot and potatoes boiling in another.
"I’m impressed," I admitted. "Joan mostly survives on takeout and frozen dinners."
Andrew chuckled. "I’ve made do with less. When you were still small and sophie was just a baby, your mother was on a bed rest. I beca quite adept at creative cooking."
Another glimpse into a past I’d never known—my father as a young dad, taking care of his family, preparing for Sophie’s arrival. It didn’t fit with the narrative I’d constructed of him over the years.
"Would you take this up to your mother while I finish the potatoes?" he asked, carefully ladling so of the sauce into a bowl.
I nodded, taking the tray he prepared. As I carried it upstairs, I couldn’t help but think about what Detective Caleb had said—a photo of with a red X across my face. A clear threat, thodically planned by soone professional enough to cover their tracks.
Liam was behind it...I had no doubt. But why escalate things this way? What was he hoping to achieve? The thought of him hiring soone to follow ...possibly to harm ...sent a fresh wave of fear through .
By the ti I reached my mother’s room, I’d managed to compose myself, not wanting to worry her. She was still awake, her eyes lighting up as I entered with the tray.
"Is that your father’s cooking I sll?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips.
"It is," I confird, setting the tray on her lap. "Apparently he’s quite the chef."
"He always was," she said fondly. "It was one of the first things that attracted to him, you know. A handso man who could cook? I didn’t stand a chance."
I laughed softly, settling into the chair beside her bed. "I had no idea."
My mother took a small bite of the sauce, closing her eyes in appreciation. "Oh, he hasn’t lost his touch," she murmured.
"You really still love him, don’t you?" I asked quietly.
She opened her eyes, eting my gaze steadily. "I never stopped," she admitted. "I was angry with him for so long...hurt, betrayed, abandoned. But underneath all that, yes, I loved him." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "Love isn’t always simple, Diane. Sotis it persists even when you wish it wouldn’t."
Her words struck a chord deep within ...not about Andrew, but about Sophie. Despite everything, despite the betrayal that had torn us apart, there was still love there, buried beneath layers of hurt and anger.
Before I could respond, Andrew appeared in the doorway with his own plate and another for . "Mind if I join you ladies?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes seeking permission.
"Please," my mother said, patting the edge of the bed beside her.
Andrew settled onto the bed, balancing his plate carefully. He took a bite of his food, then made an exaggerated face of disappointnt. "I’ve lost my touch," he declared dramatically. "This would never have passed muster in our old Sunday brunches."
My mother laughed...a genuine, musical sound I hadn’t heard in ages. "Oh, stop it. It’s delicious and you know it."
"You’re just being kind," he insisted, winking at conspiratorially. "Our daughter is too polite to tell the truth, but we both know this sauce is missing sothing."
"The only thing missing," my mother retorted, "is that ridiculous apron you used to wear. The one with ’Kiss the Cook’ emblazoned across it."
Andrew’s eyes widened in mock offense. "That apron was a work of art! Hand-embroidered by my dear mother."
"It was hideous," my mother countered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "And you know it."
"Perhaps," Andrew conceded. "But it did earn lots of kisses from a certain beautiful woman who claid to hate it."
My mother blushed, and I found myself looking away, feeling like I was intruding on a private mont. The easy banter between them, the shared history...it was both strange and wonderful to witness.
"When you’re feeling better," Andrew continued, his tone softening, "I’m taking you on a proper date. Sowhere fancy. I want to see you in that red dress...the one that makes every head turn."
"Andrew!" My mother swatted his arm playfully, her cheeks flushing deeper. "That dress is twenty years old. It probably doesn’t even fit anymore."
"Then we’ll buy you a new one," he insisted. "Even more stunning than the last."
As they continued their playful argunt about my mother’s wardrobe, I ate quietly, observing the easy chemistry between them. This was a side of my mother I’d never seen—light, flirtatious, almost girlish in her interactions with Andrew. And my father...the genuine warmth and affection in his eyes as he looked at her was undeniable.
For just a mont, I allowed myself to imagine what life might have been like if things had gone differently...if Andrew had overco his gambling addiction before it tore our family apart, if we’d grown up with both parents in a ho filled with Sunday brunches and playful banter.
The fantasy was interrupted by a sharp kick from one of the twins, bringing back to reality...to the present, with all its complications and dangers. I thought again of the photograph with the red X, and of Liam’s escalating threats.
Life wasn’t simple. Families weren’t perfect. Love was complicated and sotis painful.
But sitting there, watching my parents rediscover each other after decades apart, I felt a small spark of hope. If they could find their way back to each other after everything they’d been through, maybe there was hope for the rest of us too.
Maybe, just maybe, we could all find a way to heal.
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