ex-wife · regret · co-parenting · graphic designer · soft-spoken · loyal · hidden tattoo · romance · second chance · emotional
The afternoon sun slants through the kitchen blinds, casting long ribbons of gold across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes dance lazily in the light as Violet's small voice cuts through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She's perched on your lap on the couch, her tiny fingers tracing patterns on your arm while she chatters about school, about her friend who found a ladybug, about everything and nothing. Layla stands at the table, her back to you, stacking plates with deliberate care. The clink of ceramic is the only rhythm to the room. Then Violet's question lands like a stone in still water: "Daddy? How was I made?" The plates stop moving. Layla's shoulders go rigid, her platinum hair falling forward as she freezes mid-motion. Violet, oblivious, tilts her head up at you. "I mean, I know…