Updated Jan 26, 2026 • ~8 min read
Des found us in the hallway twenty minutes later.
“The deposition is over,” he said gently. “Your parents left. Frank’s lawyer is furious—their testimony actually helped our case. They admitted abandoning you, admitted no ongoing relationship with Imogene, admitted they haven’t been part of your life. It proves exactly what we’ve been saying: you were Imogene’s true family.”
“Great,” I said hollowly. “My abandonment is legally useful.”
“Juni—”
“Can we go home? Please?”
Jaxon drove us back to Maple Street in silence. I stared out the window, numb. The crying had stopped but left me hollow, scraped clean.
At the house, Jaxon guided me to the couch. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He returned with blankets, hot tea, and my laptop. “Mars is on their way over. I called them from the car.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know. But you need your people right now.” He tucked the blanket around me. “And I’m making you soup whether you want it or not.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be. Trust me.”
Mars arrived fifteen minutes later, took one look at me, and pulled me into a crushing hug. “I’m going to murder them. Both of them. Slowly.”
“Get in line,” Jaxon called from the kitchen. “I’ve already planned seven different murder scenarios.”
“Only seven?” Mars settled beside me on the couch. “Amateur. I’m up to fifteen.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“Tell me,” Mars said quietly. “All of it.”
So I did. Told them about the deposition, my parents’ hollow excuses, the way Mom had tried to rewrite history. The way Dad had looked through me like I was a stranger. The confirmation that they’d never wanted me back.
“They proved something I’ve always known,” I said. “I wasn’t worth fighting for. Wasn’t worth changing for. Wasn’t worth loving.”
“No.” Mars grabbed my face. “They proved they’re cowards. Selfish, broken cowards who missed out on knowing an incredible human. That’s their loss, not your failure.”
“Then why does it feel like my failure?”
“Because you were a kid when they left. And kids blame themselves for everything. But Juni—you’re not six anymore. You can see the truth now.”
Could I? The truth felt slippery, constantly shifting between “it wasn’t my fault” and “but what if it was?”
Jaxon appeared with soup—homemade chicken noodle that smelled like comfort. “Eat. Even if you don’t want to.”
I ate mechanically. The soup was good—rich and warm and made with care. Made by someone who stayed.
“Thank you,” I said to Jaxon. “For being there today. For holding me. For not trying to fix the unfixable.”
“Always. I’ll always be there.”
Mars stayed for hours. We didn’t talk about the deposition again—just watched terrible reality TV and ate ice cream and existed in the space of friendship that didn’t require explanations.
By the time Mars left, it was after midnight. Jaxon walked them to the door, had a quiet conversation I couldn’t hear.
When he came back, he said: “You should sleep. It’s been a terrible day.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Want me to sit with you?”
“Yes.”
We went to my room. I changed into pajamas while he waited in the hallway, then invited him back in. He sat on the window seat, giving me space.
“You can—” I gestured to the bed. “You can lie down. If you want. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kicked off his shoes and lay beside me, careful not to touch without permission. I scooted closer, rested my head on his chest, let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat ground me.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said quietly. “See how pathetic I am about my parents.”
“You’re not pathetic. You’re human. You wanted your parents to love you. That’s not pathetic—that’s fundamental.”
“But I’m twenty-eight. I should be over it by now.”
“Some wounds don’t have expiration dates. You’re allowed to grieve what you never had.”
We lay in silence for a while. Then: “Jaxon?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I’m capable of love? Real love? Or am I too damaged?”
He propped himself up on one elbow, looked down at me. “You’re one of the most loving people I know. You love Grammy even though she hurt you. You love this house. You love Mars. You love your writing. You’re not damaged—you’re careful. And careful people just need patient ones.”
“Are you patient?”
“For you? Infinitely.”
I kissed him. Soft and tentative, seeking comfort. He kissed me back gently, no pressure, just presence.
“Stay with me tonight,” I whispered. “Just sleep. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Of course.”
We settled under the covers, his arms around me, and for the first time all day, I felt safe. The six-year-old girl who’d waited at the window finally had someone who wouldn’t leave.
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Jaxon said into my hair. “You’re extraordinary. And it’s their loss that they’ll never know you.”
“Your words are very nice but I still feel like garbage.”
“That’s fair. Healing isn’t linear.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “But Juni? Eventually you’re going to believe what I’m telling you. That you’re worth staying for. That their leaving was never about your value.”
“When?”
“However long it takes. And I’ll remind you every day until you believe it.”
I fell asleep in his arms, grief and comfort twined together. Woke up at 3 AM from a nightmare—my parents driving away while six-year-old me screamed for them to stop.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you.” Jaxon was immediately awake, holding me through the panic. “You’re safe. You’re here with me. They can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I thought seeing them would give me closure. But it just opened everything back up.”
“That’s how confronting trauma works sometimes. It gets worse before it gets better.”
“I hate that.”
“Me too.”
I cried again—quieter this time, exhausted tears. Jaxon held me until I stopped shaking.
“Want to hear something?” he asked.
“What?”
“The letters Grammy wrote me. When I was growing up. She talked about you all the time. How smart you were. How talented. How she worried you were building walls too high.” He found his phone, pulled up a photo of one letter. “Listen to this: ‘Juni wrote a story today about a girl who finds her family. It made me cry. She has such a gift for capturing longing. I wish I could give her what she’s searching for—the certainty that she’s loved. But I think that’s something she’ll have to learn herself, when she’s ready to believe it.'”
My throat closed. “She wrote that?”
“When you were fifteen. She saw you clearly. Saw that you were searching for proof you were lovable. And she tried to give you that proof through the house, through constancy, through showing up every day.”
“But I still didn’t believe it.”
“Because your parents’ leaving was louder than her staying. But Juni—” He made me look at him. “Maybe now you can hear it. Grammy stayed. I’m staying. Mars is staying. You have people who choose you. Every single day.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let the truth of his words overwrite the lies my parents had taught me.
Maybe it would take time. Maybe years. Maybe I’d always carry the scar of abandonment.
But Jaxon was right: I had people who stayed.
And maybe that was enough to start healing.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For tonight. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”
“Yes, I do. Because no one’s ever—” I couldn’t finish.
“I know.” He kissed my temple. “But I am. I’m loving you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
We fell asleep tangled together. When I woke at dawn, Jaxon was still there—solid and warm and real.
He’d stayed through the nightmares.
Stayed through the grief.
Stayed when I was at my most broken.
And for the first time in twenty-two years, I began to believe that maybe—maybe—someone staying wasn’t a miracle.
Maybe it was just love.
And maybe I’d been worthy of love all along.
I just needed to stop looking for it in people who’d proven they couldn’t give it.
And start accepting it from the person who already had.
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