Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~9 min read
Waking up knowing my son is down the hall is the best feeling I’ve ever experienced.
I’m up at six—old habits from years of early morning meetings—but instead of checking emails, I find myself creeping to Miles’ door. Just to make sure he’s still there. Still real.
He’s sprawled in the pack-n-play, elephant clutched in one fist, mouth open slightly, completely dead to the world.
My son.
I could stand here watching him sleep for hours. It’s creepy, probably, but I can’t help it. I’ve missed so many mornings like this. So many quiet moments.
Not anymore.
I head downstairs to make coffee. The house is silent, peaceful. Through the massive windows, the lake is calm, mist rising off the water as the sun climbs higher.
This is what I bought this place for. The quiet. The escape. But it’s never felt like home until now.
Until Miles and Emilia are under the same roof.
I’m halfway through my first cup when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Emilia appears, hair messy, wearing pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, looking soft and sleepy and dangerously appealing.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“God, yes.” She accepts the mug I pour her, wrapping both hands around it. “Miles still asleep?”
“Like the dead. I checked on him.”
“Of course you did.” But she’s smiling. “He’s an early riser usually. We might have twenty minutes. Possibly thirty if we’re lucky.”
“What do you normally do with that time?”
“Drink coffee and pray he sleeps longer.”
We sit at the kitchen island together, morning light streaming in. It feels domestic. Married, almost. Like we’re a family having a quiet moment before the chaos of the day begins.
Except we’re not a family. Not really. We’re two people trying to figure out how to co-parent a child conceived when we were together, when we thought we had forever.
Before I ruined everything.
“I’ve been thinking about ground rules,” Emilia says, breaking the comfortable silence. “If we’re going to make this work.”
“Okay.”
“We need a schedule. Routine is important for Miles. He does better when he knows what to expect.”
“Makes sense. What’s his normal schedule?”
She pulls out her phone, shows me a detailed breakdown. Wake time, meal times, nap time, bath time, bed time. All carefully calibrated to minimize meltdowns and maximize cooperation.
“This is very specific,” I observe.
“Toddlers are tiny dictators. You deviate from the schedule at your own risk.”
“Noted.” I study the schedule. “So we’re up at seven, breakfast at seven-thirty, play time until nap at one, then—”
“Then we have about two hours of freedom before snack, dinner prep, dinner, bath, and bed. Welcome to parenting. It’s very glamorous.”
“I don’t need glamorous. I just need him.”
She looks at me over her coffee mug, and I can’t read her expression. “You say that now. Wait until you’ve had three consecutive days of the same routine. It gets monotonous.”
“I spent the last two years planning a wedding I didn’t want and pretending to love someone I didn’t. Trust me, monotony with my son sounds like paradise.”
Her expression shifts. “Do you regret it? Not just leaving me. But the whole two years. The engagement, the almost-wedding, all of it.”
I don’t hesitate. “Every second. The only thing I don’t regret is that it led to you crashing the wedding. That gave me back Miles. Gave me a chance to fix things.”
“You can’t fix this, Asher.”
“Maybe not. But I can try to build something new.”
Before she can respond, we hear it: “MAMA! DADA!”
We both smile.
“And that’s our cue,” Emilia says, setting down her coffee.
We head upstairs together. Miles is standing in the pack-n-play, hair sticking up, huge grin on his face.
“Morning, buddy,” I say, lifting him out. He immediately wraps his arms around my neck, and my heart expands approximately three sizes.
“Dada! Lake! Ducks!”
“Oh no,” Emilia murmurs. “He remembered.”
“What?”
“You promised ducks yesterday. He won’t forget. We’re feeding ducks today or there will be a meltdown.”
“Then we’ll feed ducks.”
“Do you have bread?”
I don’t. “I’ll order some?”
“You can’t order bread for ducks, Asher. This isn’t a business deal.”
“Right. Okay. So we go to a store?”
She’s trying not to laugh at me. “Yes. Normal people go to stores.”
An hour later—after breakfast and getting Miles dressed, which takes twice as long as I expect because he keeps trying to wear his shirt as pants—we’re in the car heading to the nearest town.
It’s small, charming, the kind of place where everyone probably knows everyone. We park near a grocery store, and I realize my mistake immediately.
“I should have worn a hat,” I mutter.
“Why—oh.” Emilia’s seen what I’m seeing. A couple of people doing double-takes, pulling out phones.
We’re recognized.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I start, but Emilia’s already unbuckling Miles.
“We’re not hiding. We’re buying bread and feeding ducks. If people want to stare, let them.”
Her confidence is surprising and incredibly attractive.
We head into the store, Miles in the cart, already trying to grab everything in reach. I quickly learn that shopping with a toddler is a full-contact sport.
“No, buddy, we don’t need seventeen boxes of cookies.”
“COOKIE!”
“How about one box?”
“TWO!”
“Okay, two. Negotiation is a valuable skill,” I tell Emilia.
“You’re going to spoil him.”
“Probably. Is that bad?”
“Ask me again when he’s a teenager demanding a Ferrari.”
We navigate the aisles, aware of people watching, whispering. Taking photos. But Emilia ignores them, focused on Miles, so I do the same.
At checkout, the cashier—a woman in her sixties—smiles at Miles.
“What a handsome boy. He has your eyes,” she says to me.
“Thank you.”
“And your mama is very pretty,” she tells Miles, who grins and says, “Mama pretty!”
Emilia blushes. The cashier seems oblivious to who we are, or maybe she just doesn’t care about society scandal. Either way, the normal interaction feels like a gift.
Back at the house, we head down to the lake with our store-bought bread. There are, in fact, ducks. Miles is beside himself with excitement.
“DUCKS! DADA, DUCKS!”
“I see them, buddy. You want to throw them some bread?”
I show him how to tear off pieces and toss them. He mostly throws bread at his own feet, but the ducks don’t care. They waddle over, and Miles shrieks with delight.
“MAMA, LOOK! DUCKS EATING!”
Emilia is taking photos, and I’m struck by how perfect this moment is. My son, thrilled about ducks. Emilia, smiling genuinely for the first time since the cathedral. Sun warming us, water lapping at the shore.
This. This is what I threw away two years ago.
A duck gets brave and comes very close. Miles freezes, then slowly extends a piece of bread. The duck takes it from his hand, and Miles looks at me with such wonder.
“He ate from my hand!”
“He did! You’re a duck whisperer.”
“What’s a whisperer?”
“Someone who’s really good with animals.”
Miles considers this, then tries to whisper at the next duck. “Hello, duck. I’m Miles.”
Emilia laughs, and the sound is sunshine. God, I’ve missed that laugh.
We spend an hour at the lake. Miles runs around, throws bread, tries to catch ducks (unsuccessful), and discovers that rocks make satisfying splashes.
“Careful not to fall in,” Emilia warns, moving closer.
“I’ve got him,” I say, scooping Miles up before he can lean too far. “No swimming today, buddy.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. Maybe when it’s warmer.”
“Okay!” He accepts this easily, already distracted by a butterfly.
Eventually, Miles starts getting tired—the sign Emilia recognizes immediately.
“Nap time soon,” she warns. “We should head back.”
We walk back to the house, Miles between us, holding both our hands. He swings himself up, laughing when we lift him off the ground.
“Again! Again!”
We do it three more times before reaching the house.
Inside, Emilia takes Miles up for his nap. I hear her singing the same lullaby from last night, her voice soft and sweet.
When she comes back down, I’ve made sandwiches for lunch.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I wanted to. Besides, it’s just sandwiches. Even I can manage that.”
We eat in comfortable silence, the quiet house wrapped around us.
“He had fun,” Emilia says finally. “At the lake. Thank you for doing that.”
“I had fun too. This is…” I search for the right words. “This is what I imagined. When we were together, when we’d talk about the future. Lazy mornings, feeding ducks, just… being a family.”
“Asher—”
“I know. I know we’re not together. I’m not trying to imply we are. I just—I’m grateful. For this. For you letting me have this time with him.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re good with him. Better than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you’d be distant, or awkward, or that the reality of parenting would scare you off. But you’re… natural with him.”
“He makes it easy. He’s amazing, Emilia. You did that. You raised an amazing kid.”
“We raised him,” she corrects softly. “I had help from Cora and Autumn. And now you’re here. So we’re raising him.”
The word “we” does something to my chest.
“We,” I repeat. “I like the sound of that.”
She stands abruptly, taking her plate to the sink. “I should check on Miles. Make sure he’s actually sleeping.”
She’s retreating. I pushed too hard, got too close.
But when she passes my chair, her hand briefly touches my shoulder. Just for a second.
It’s not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it’s something.
And I’ll take it.
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