I was elbow-deep in dishwater when Owen’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his face went pale.
“It’s Claire,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
My stomach dropped.
Claire, Owen’s ex-wife, hadn’t contacted us in years, not since she’d turned the kids against him after their divorce. She was a controlling witch who didn’t even allow Owen to have pets when they were married.
I dried my hands quickly, moving closer to Owen as he answered the call.
“Hello?” Owen’s voice was cautious, guarded.
I couldn’t hear Claire’s side of the conversation, but Owen’s expressions told me everything I needed to know.
His eyebrows shot up, then furrowed. His free hand clenched into a fist, then slowly relaxed.
“They want to… Really?” Owen’s voice cracked slightly. “Yeah, of course.
I’d love that.”
When he hung up, Owen turned to me, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. “The kids want to see me,” he said. “After all this time…”
I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his body tremble slightly.
“That’s wonderful, Owen,” I said, trying to keep my own emotions in check. “But why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
Owen sighed, pulling back to look at me. “Claire insists on visiting first.
To ‘check things out’ before she’ll let the kids come over.”
I felt a flash of anger. “She doesn’t get to dictate—”
“I know,” Owen cut me off gently. “But if it means seeing my kids again… I’ll jump through whatever hoops I have to.”
The next few days were a whirlwind of cleaning and preparation.
Our son, Ethan, picked up on the tension, asking why we were “making everything so fancy.”
When the doorbell rang that Saturday morning, Owen and I exchanged a look. This was it.
Owen took a deep breath and opened the door. Claire stood there, looking exactly as I remembered her from the few times we’d met years ago.
Perfectly coiffed hair, designer clothes, and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Owen,” she said, her voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s been too long.”
As soon as she stepped inside, her facade cracked. Her nose wrinkled as she looked around our living room.
“What’s this sofa made of?
Synthetic fiber? My kids can’t lie on that. Throw it away.”
I bit my tongue, reminding myself that this was for Owen’s kids.
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