Chapter 8
That night was the longest of my life.
Ryan slept on the couch.
I slept in Noah’s room.
On the floor next to his bed.
Buddy slept between us.
Every time Noah stirred, I woke up.
Every time a car passed outside, I tensed.
Around three in the morning, I heard the front door open.
I sat up.
Heart pounding.
I crept to the bedroom door.
Peeked out.
It was Ryan.
He was coming back inside.
He’d been on the porch.
Talking on the phone.
Quietly.
I heard the last words.
“I know, Mom. I know. I’m trying. Just… give me time. Please.”
He hung up.
Leaned against the doorframe.
His shoulders shook.
I closed the door softly.
Went back to my spot on the floor.
He was still talking to her.
Still trying to make it right for both of us.
But there was no middle ground anymore.
Not after today.
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee.
Ryan was in the kitchen.
He’d made breakfast.
Eggs.
Toast.
Bacon.
He looked terrible.
Eyes red.
Hair messy.
He smiled when he saw me.
A sad, tired smile.
“Hey. I made your favorite.”
I sat down.
“Where’s Noah?”
“Still asleep. Buddy’s with him. I checked ten minutes ago.”
He pushed a plate toward me.
“Emma… about last night. About Mom. I’m sorry. More sorry than I can say. I never thought she’d go that far. Never. When the police were here… when I realized what she’d tried to do to Noah… I felt sick. Like I was going to throw up.”
He paused.
Picked at his food.
“I called her last night. Told her she needs to get help. Real help. That she can’t come back until she sees a therapist and works through her… issues. She didn’t take it well. Said I was dead to her. Said she’d contest the will. Said she’d make sure we never see a dime of that money.”
He looked up.
“And I told her to do it. I told her to give every last penny to charity. Because Noah is worth more than two point seven million dollars. More than any amount of money. And if I have to choose… I choose my son. I choose you. I choose us.”
I stared at him.
For a long time, I didn’t speak.
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to.
But Diane had been controlling him for so long.
Old habits die hard.
“Ryan,” I said. “If she calls tomorrow and says she’s dying. Or that she’s all alone. Or that she’s changed. Will you go running back?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “She’s my mom. I spent my whole life taking care of her. Making sure she was okay. It’s not something I can just turn off like a switch. But I’m going to try. For you. For Noah. I’m going to try so hard.”
He reached across the table.
Took my hand.
“Give me a chance, Emma. Please. Don’t give up on us yet.”
I looked at his hand in mine.
I thought about the boy upstairs.
About the life we’d built.
About the vows we’d taken.
For better or worse.
In sickness and in health.
This was the worst.
This was the sickness.
But maybe… maybe we could heal.
Together.
“Okay,” I said. “One chance. But we do this my way. No more secrets. No more talking to your mother without me knowing. We go to couples therapy. We get Noah into counseling too. And if Diane comes back, we face her together. United. No more divided loyalties. No more choosing. You’re with us. One hundred percent. Or you’re not.”
He squeezed my hand.
“One hundred percent. I promise.”
Noah chose that moment to walk in.
Buddy at his heels.
“Is Grandma gone?” he asked.
Ryan stood up.
Kneeled to his son’s level.
“Yeah, buddy. Grandma’s gone. For a while. And I’m sorry. For everything. For the dog. For the fighting. For not protecting you like I should have. Can you ever forgive me?”
Noah looked at his father.
Then he threw his arms around him.
“Of course I forgive you, Dad. You’re my dad.”
Ryan held him tight.
I saw tears on his face again.
But these were different.
These were healing tears.
For the next week, things were almost normal.
Better than normal, actually.
Ryan came home early every day.
He helped Noah with homework.
He finished the dog house—an elaborate structure with a shingled roof, a heated floor, and a little porch with Noah’s name carved into the post.
We went to our first therapy session.
It was awkward.
Painful.
But necessary.
Noah started seeing a child psychologist.
The bedwetting stopped.
The nightmares stopped.
He laughed again.
The loud, uninhibited laugh I hadn’t heard in months.
I started to relax.
To believe that maybe… just maybe… we’d survived.
That Diane was gone.
May you like
That we could move on.
I was wrong.
