His words were cut off by the sound of the front door opening.
“Sebastian?” a woman’s voice called softly.
We both turned.
Livia.
Wearing one of the dresses from the credit card statements. And the necklace. The shoes. Every piece—from head to toe—mine.
My blood boiled. How dare they?
Her eyes widened as she saw us—me standing by the couch, Sebastian pale and frozen beside me, tension thick in the air.
She fumbled, clutching a small purse. “Hey… what’s happening? Did I come at the wrong time?” she asked, voice awkward, laughing nervously. “I just wanted to have dinner with my favorite people… but you both look… angry. Is this bad?”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “No, not bad,” I said softly, stepping closer. “Not bad at all. I was just telling him that we’re going to separate.”
Livia’s lips parted, color draining from her face. “W-What?”
I tilted my head, a slow, quiet smile on my lips. “So go ahead. Have dinner with him. Maybe even comfort him the way you used to.”
“Breakfast, Mommy,” my little boy Adrian chirped, setting the tray down carefully on the bed. A tiny pancake, a glass of milk, and that radiant smile that always melted my defenses. “Daddy says he’s sorry. Please forgive him.”
My chest tightened. He climbed onto the bed gingerly, wriggling into the small space beside me, his sticky little hand finding mine. “Please, Mommy,” he whispered, eyes wide with innocence and trust. “Daddy said he’s sorry for taking your things. He promises to be better, to stop.”
I glanced toward Sebastian, lingering in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. That practiced, contrite expression—so precise it seemed more suited for a theater stage than real life—was his go-to when he wanted forgiveness.
“Adrian,” he urged, his voice soft but insistent, “say it again. Tell Mommy you forgive Daddy.”
The deliberate manipulation made a hollow laugh rise in my throat. Using a child as a pawn, wrapped up in a pretense of family harmony. I watched Adrian press his tiny forehead against my arm and, solemn and quiet, say, “Mommy, please… forgive Daddy. He made a mistake. He won’t do it again.”
I could have refused. I could have set the tray aside, said no—today, tomorrow, never. But I looked at my son—my warm, trusting little boy—and something inside me cracked. For his sake, I swallowed the hot, bitter bile in my chest and nodded.