The week before last Thursday, they finished two gowns for a charity showcase at a local community center. It wasn’t Paris Fashion Week, but it mattered. It mattered to them.
I woke up that morning feeling… calm. Proud. Like maybe we had finally earned a quiet chapter.
Then the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. My first thought was a neighbor, maybe a package. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked to the door.
When I opened it, the hallway air punched the breath out of me.
Lauren.
She stood there like time hadn’t touched her the way it touched the rest of us. Her hair was glossy, her nails manicured, her sunglasses perched on top of her head like she’d stepped off a magazine cover. But I saw the small cracks too—the tightness around her mouth, the way her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She looked past me, into the apartment, like she was judging it.
“Mark,” she said, drawing my name out like it was something she’d almost forgotten. “Wow.”
My hand stayed on the doorknob. My body went cold, then hot. My heart started doing that painful, stupid thumping thing it used to do when we were young and I still believed her promises.
“What are you doing here?” I managed.
She smirked. “Still the same,” she said, stepping forward without being invited. “Still living in this hole. A man your age should be rich.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. Because if I spoke too quickly, I was afraid I’d say something I couldn’t take back.
Behind me, I heard the soft shuffle of feet—Emma and Clara coming from their room, guided by the familiar layout of our home, one hand trailing the wall, the other holding a length of fabric.
“Dad?” Emma called, her voice gentle.
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