Chapter 29:

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Julian didn’t take the hint.

Over the next few weeks, he appeared everywhere. At the grocery store where I shopped. At the coffee place near my apartment. Once, memorably, at the cemetery where Samuel was buried.

That one, I’ll admit, shook me.

I’d gone to visit on what would have been Samuel’s first birthday. Brought flowers—white roses, his favorite according to a fantasy where he’d lived long enough to have favorites.

Julian was already there.

He’d brought flowers too. And a stuffed bear. And a birthday card addressed to “My Son.”

I stood there, staring at him, trying to decide if I should leave or stay or scream.

“I come every week,” he said without looking at me. “In case you were wondering.”

I wasn’t wondering. Didn’t care. But apparently, he was going to tell me anyway.

“I talk to him. Tell him about my day. About how I’m trying to be better.” Julian’s voice cracked. “I tell him about his mother. About how smart and strong she is. About how I failed both of you.”

“Julian—”

“I know you don’t want to hear it.” He finally looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollow. “But I need to say it anyway. I’m sorry. For all of it. For choosing wrong. For not seeing what mattered. For losing you.”

The wind picked up, rustling leaves. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang. Life continuing, oblivious to our little tragedy.

“I loved you,” he said. “I know you don’t believe me. But I did. I do.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

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He blinked, surprised.

“I know you loved me, Julian. In your way. It just wasn’t enough.” I knelt down, placed my roses next to his bear. “Love should never have to compete with obsession. I shouldn’t have had to beg for attention. Samuel shouldn’t have had to die for you to realize I mattered.”

“I know—”

“Do you?” I stood up, faced him. “Because every time you show up like this, every time you call from a new number or send flowers or leave notes, you’re making it about you. About your guilt. Your regret. Your need for forgiveness.”

“I just want—”

“I don’t care what you want anymore.” My voice was calm. Final. “I spent eleven years caring about what you wanted. I’m done.”

I walked away. Left him standing there with his stuffed bear and his birthday card and his too-late apologies.

Behind me, I heard him say something. Too quiet to make out.

I didn’t turn around.

Diego proposed properly a month later.

Took me to the restaurant where we’d had our first lunch together. Got down on one knee. Had the whole speech prepared.

“Adriana, you’re the most infuriating, stubborn, brilliant woman I’ve ever met. You make me crazy. You make me laugh. You make me want to be better. Will you marry me?”

The ring was beautiful. Simple. Nothing like the ostentatious thing Julian had given me all those years ago.

“Yes,” I said.

He looked shocked. “Really? Just like that? No ‘maybe’ or ‘I’ll think about it’?”

“Just like that.”

“Should I be suspicious?”

“Probably. But you won’t be.”

He laughed. Slipped the ring on my finger. Kissed me in front of the entire restaurant while people clapped.

It felt different than with Julian. Lighter. Easier. Like I could breathe.

We got married six months later.

Small ceremony. Courthouse wedding. Just family and close friends. Clara was my maid of honor again. Made a joke in her speech about how I’d finally found someone who didn’t prioritize dogs over children.

Everyone laughed. Even me.

Julian didn’t show up.

I’d been worried he might. Had security on standby just in case. But he didn’t.

Maybe he’d finally accepted it was over.

Or maybe he was just tired of fighting.

Either way, I didn’t care.

Three years passed.

Three years of being Adriana Santos again. Of working at Tradition Design Studio, eventually becoming Diego’s partner—in business and in life. Of learning what a healthy relationship actually looked like.

Of healing.

Not completely. I don’t think you ever heal completely from losing a child. But enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to laugh. Enough to imagine a future that didn’t involve constant pain.

Diego wanted children. I wasn’t sure I could go through it again. The fear of losing another one felt insurmountable.

“We don’t have to,” he said. “If you’re not ready, we don’t have to.”

“That’s it? No pressure? No ‘but I really want to be a father’?”

“Of course I want to be a father.” He pulled me close. “But not at the cost of your peace. We’ll adopt. Or foster. Or just be the cool aunt and uncle to Clara’s kids. Whatever you need.”

I cried. Ugly crying. The kind where your face gets splotchy and your nose runs.

“Is that a yes to kids or no to kids?” Diego asked, confused.

“It’s a thank you for not being Julian.”

“That’s a low bar, but I’ll take it.”

I saw Julian one last time, three years after our divorce.

I was at the cemetery—still visited Samuel regularly, though not as often as before. Life had gotten busy. Happy. I was pregnant, actually. Five months along. A girl this time, if the ultrasound was right.

Diego had wanted to come, but I’d asked to go alone. Some conversations you need to have with ghosts.

“Hi, baby,” I said to Samuel’s headstone. “Guess what? You’re going to be a big brother. Or you would have been. I don’t know how that works with heaven and everything. But I wanted you to know.”

I told him about Diego. About Clara’s twins. About my work. About everything he’d missed and everything I wished he hadn’t.

When I stood up to leave, Julian was there.

Not creepy-stalker there. Just… there. Standing a respectful distance away, holding his own flowers.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I come on Thursdays usually, but I got the day wrong.”

I should have left. Should have gotten in my car and driven away.

Instead, I asked, “How are you?”

He looked surprised by the question. “I’m… better. Working at a clinic in the next state over. Therapy. A lot of therapy.”

“Good.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.” He meant it. I could tell. “Diego’s a lucky man.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

Silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… present.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Julian said finally. “I mean that. I know I don’t have the right to say it, but I’m glad.”

“Thank you.”

More silence. Then: “I think about him every day. Samuel. About what he would have been like. What he would have grown up to be.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. For him. For you.” Julian’s voice broke. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand what mattered until it was too late.”

“I know.”

“That’s all?” He laughed, bitter. “Just ‘I know’?”

“What else do you want me to say, Julian? That I forgive you? That it’s okay? It’s not okay. It’ll never be okay.” I placed my hand on my belly, felt the flutter of movement. “But I’m done being angry. It’s exhausting. And it doesn’t change anything.”

“So that’s it? We just… move on?”

“You move on,” I corrected. “I’ve already moved on. This is just me telling you it’s okay for you to do the same.”

He nodded slowly. Understanding, maybe. Or just accepting.

“Be happy, Julian. Find someone who isn’t a placeholder for your high school girlfriend. Build a life that doesn’t revolve around guilt. Let Samuel rest.”

“And us?”

“There is no us. There hasn’t been for three years. But I don’t wish you ill. I just wish you… away.”

I walked to my car. Got in. Started the engine.

In my rearview mirror, I could see Julian still standing there. Small and alone and finally, finally letting go.

I drove home to Diego. To our apartment that smelled like paint and coffee. To our life that was messy and imperfect and ours.

That night, Diego put his hand on my belly and felt our daughter kick.

“She’s strong,” he said.

“Like her mother.”

“Like her mother,” he agreed.

I thought about Julian. About the life I’d left behind. About Samuel and grief and the long road to something that looked almost like peace.

“I think I’m ready,” I said.

“Ready for what?”

“To name her.”

We’d been avoiding it. Too scared to make it real. Too worried about jinxing it.

But I was done living in fear.

“Hope,” I said. “I want to name her Hope.”

Diego kissed my forehead. “Perfect.”

And it was.

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