Chapter Six

The day had gotten darker—clouds hanging low like a warning, and the wind tapping gently against the windowpanes. I lit the kitchen light and glanced down at the steaming dishes on the table. Baked mac and cheese, fried chicken, buttery corn on the cob. Comfort food. The kind Martha loved. The kind I made when I needed the illusion of control.

I plated everything with silent efficiency, my hands moving faster than my thoughts, trying to outrun the unease still lodged in my chest. The sound of soft giggles and footsteps echoed from upstairs.

I wiped my hands on a towel, stepped into the hallway, and called up the stairs.

“Martha! Dinner’s ready!”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Coming! Daddy, let’s go!”

A few seconds later, I heard them on the stairs—Martha skipping the last two steps, barefoot and energetic. Theo followed behind, his expression unreadable as he entered the dining room, scanning the space like it was a memory being pieced back together.

We all sat.

Martha climbed into her chair, humming to herself as she reached for her fork. Theo sat across from me, one elbow on the table, eyes occasionally flicking to mine. I couldn’t meet them. Not for long.

I was just about to lift a bite of food to my mouth when—

“Ahem.”

I glanced up, startled.

Martha looked directly at me with a raised brow, one hand dramatically resting on her chest. “Mum,” she said, clearing her throat again. “Seriously?”

I blinked. “What?”

She sighed, full of theatrical patience. “You forgot.”

And then it hit me. The prayer. Our little dinner tradition. The one thing I’d never skipped, not once, even when it was just the two of us.

“Sorry, darling,” I said softly, setting my fork down. “Mummy’s distracted tonight.”

Martha smiled sweetly, then sat straighter. “We have to hold hands,” she announced.

Her tiny hand reached for mine first, but her other was already stretched out toward Theo.

I froze.

She looked at me expectantly. “Mum?”

My stomach twisted. I reached for her hand automatically, but that meant…

Theo extended his hand toward me across the table—waiting, not pushing. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His fingers were steady, open.

I hesitated.

Just a few inches separated us, but it felt like a chasm. Holding his hand—after everything—felt too intimate, too raw. And yet… under Martha’s gaze, under her quiet innocence, what could I do?

My hand brushed his.

Warm.

Familiar.

And far too dangerous.

Martha beamed. “Dear God,” she began in her practiced British accent, eyes squeezed shut, “thank you for the food. Thank you for my mummy and my daddy and my sparkly socks. And thank you for making today special. Amen.”

“Amen,” I echoed softly.

Theo’s voice joined a second later. “Amen.”

We opened our eyes. I pulled my hand back quickly, busying myself with my napkin as if it needed folding.

Everyone was done not long after, the plates scraped clean and Martha’s plate nearly licked. She’d talked through most of the meal—about school, about Aire, about the weird dream she had where she turned into a mermaid in math class—and neither Theo nor I interrupted her once. We just… listened. For a fleeting second, it felt like something whole.

But that was dangerous thinking.

I stood up first, gathering the empty plates into a neat stack. “Alright, miss mermaid,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice, “time for bed.”

“But it’s barely dark!” Martha whined.

“It’s a school night,” I said firmly, scooping her up mid-protest.

She squealed and giggled as I carried her upstairs, her little arms wrapping around my neck like always. I tucked her in with care—fluffy blanket pulled to her chin, her favorite giraffe tucked beside her. I kissed her forehead and turned off the main light, leaving the pink fairy lamp glowing in the corner.

As I was about to close the door, her voice stopped me.

“Today was really good, Mum.”

My hand paused on the knob.

“I’m glad Daddy came.”

I swallowed hard. “Sleep, darling,” I whispered.

Then I shut the door.

Downstairs, the kitchen felt colder somehow. Emptier. I walked over to the sink and started rinsing the dishes, trying to find focus in the repetitive clatter of ceramic and running water.

I didn’t hear him come in until he was standing behind me.

“I’ll help,” Theo said.

I shook my head without turning. “It’s fine.”

“I insist.”

“I said no.”

He stepped closer. “Sofia—”

“Why are you still here?” I snapped, spinning around. Water from the dishes clung to my hands, dripping onto the floor, but I didn’t care. “You already ruined dinner. Was that not enough for one night?”

Theo’s brows pulled together. “I didn’t say anything during dinner.”

“That’s exactly it!” I hissed, my voice sharp. “You sat there like you belonged, like it was normal!”

Theo flinched like I’d slapped him. His jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.”

My laugh was short and humorless. “Sorry?” I echoed. “Theo, an apology doesn’t fix me. It doesn’t undo what you did.”

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

I took a step closer, my voice low, trembling with years of fury and fear I’d buried just to survive. “You ruined me.”

His eyes darkened, guilt swimming just beneath the surface.

“You think just because you came back… just because Martha likes you, we can pretend that none of it happened?” I shook my head, voice breaking. “You beat me. You left me hanging from a rope like I was nothing. Like my life meant nothing to you.”

Theo took a breath like he wanted to respond, but I didn’t let him.

“And the worst part?” I whispered. “I still feel it. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I wake up choking, clawing at my neck. It never really leaves, Theo. The bruises faded, but the memories didn’t.”

His face was pale now, eyes locked on mine with something raw behind them. Shame. Regret. But I didn’t care.

“You raped me,” I said, the words falling like lead. “And now you want to play house like none of that happened? Like you can just step in as her father and I’ll sit here smiling over dinner?”

His lips parted. But no words came out.

“I don’t care what version of yourself you’ve convinced the world you are now. You don’t get to rewrite mine.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, Theo spoke—his voice hoarse, almost broken. “I know I don’t deserve her. Or you.”

I crossed my arms tightly, keeping the tears at bay. “You’re right. You don’t.”

He nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “But I’m here. For her. And I’m not leaving again.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know which part scared me more—him staying, or the way some traitorous part of me still remembered how his hand had felt in mine at the table.