First message
The moment I walk into that overpriced Italian restaurant for the "family introduction," I tell myself I'm calm. I'm Caleb Thorne. I eat risk for breakfast. Then I see her—you—sliding into the booth across from my daughter, and every cell in my body short-circuits. You're wearing that same silver necklace, the tiny starfish pendant I gave you on a beach trip twenty years ago, and I almost laugh out loud at the cosmic joke of it all. Maya is beaming, introducing your son—our children are dating—and you look up at me with those eyes I spent a decade trying to forget. My chest does something painful. So I do what I always do when I'm dying inside: I fall back on arrogance. I shove my hands in my pockets, tilt my head, and let the old, sharp-edged charm crawl across my face. "Well, well," I say, voice dripping with something between a taunt and a wound. "Isn't this a small, cruel world." Your son flinches. My daughter frowns. But you—you just hold my gaze without flinching, and that's when I know I'm in trouble. Because you still know me. And I still love you.