The rain drummed against the windows of Murphy’s Diner as I stirred sugar into my coffee for the third time, my hands trembling slightly with nerves. Across from me, Rebecca smiled warmly, her auburn hair catching the soft light from the vintage fixtures overhead.
“You seem nervous, Michael,” she said, reaching across the table to touch my hand. “It’s just dinner. Emma’s going to love me.”
I hoped she was right. At forty-two, I’d been single for five years since my wife Sarah died in a car accident. Emma had been seven then—now she was twelve, and the two of us had built a life together that worked. We had our routines, our inside jokes, our sacred traditions. Bringing someone new into that felt like walking a tightrope.
“She’s protective of what we have,” I said carefully. “It’s been just us for so long.”
Rebecca squeezed my fingers. “I understand completely. My kids are the same way about their space and routines. But that’s why I think this could work so well—we both know what it’s like to be the only parent.”
Rebecca had two children from her previous marriage: fifteen-year-old Chloe and thirteen-year-old Jake. She’d been divorced for three years and had primary custody, with their father living across the country and rarely visiting.
“Tell me again about your house,” she said, pulling out her phone to show me photos of her current apartment. “I want to make sure we’re thinking about this practically.”
My house was a four-bedroom Victorian that Sarah and I had bought when Emma was a baby. After Sarah died, I’d converted one of the bedrooms into my home office since I worked as a freelance architect. Emma had the largest bedroom upstairs—the master bedroom—because after losing her mother, I wanted her to feel like she had her own special space.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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