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“I think I screwed up.”

She pauses, looking at me. “Did you say that out loud? Mark the date.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

“You’re both scared.”

I glance at her.

She’s unpacking a loaf of sourdough, calm and casual. Like she didn’t just slice through the truth.

“I’ve known Wren a long time,” she continues. “She runs when things get real. I used to think it was because she was selfish. Now I think it’s because she’s been hurt so much she doesn’t know how to stay.”

“I’m not trying to hurt her.”

Jen looks at me. “I know. But if you’re going to love her, you have to do it all the way. No halfway. No exit plans. She’ll feel it. And she’ll leave.”

I nod, throat tight.

The hallway light comes on with a soft click behind us. The fuse box is fixed. The power’s back on.

But inside, I’m in the dark.

Hours later, I squeeze her hand as I leave. “I'll figure it out.”

But as I drive to pick up Eric from school, I wonder if there's anything to figure out. Wren had made herself clear.

“Uncle Sean!”Eric bounces toward me in the school pickup line, arms flailing, his backpack crooked on one shoulder. “I made something for you!”

“Hey, buddy.” My mood lightens as I see the little boy. “What have you got there?”

Eric pulls a folded paper from his pocket, his brown eyes gleaming. “It's us!”

I crouch down to examine the drawing. Three figures stand hand in hand in front of what appears to be my house: a tall man in black, a woman with long dark hair, and a small boy between them. Above them, written in crooked letters: “MY FAMILY.” A big red heart over us.

Something catches in my throat.

“That's you,” Eric points. “And that's Mommy. And that's me in the middle.”

“This is cool, Eric,” I manage. “Great drawing.”

“Ms. Wilson said to draw our families,” Eric explains as we walk to the car. “Jimmy drew his mom and his stepdad and his real dad and his sisters and his cat. I drew us.”

In the car, Eric chatters about his day while I navigate traffic, the drawing placed on the dashboard like a trophy.

“Do you see the dog?”

He points. A blob with ears and a tail.

“That’s Biscuit. He’s not real yet. But when we’re a real family, maybe we can get him.”

My throat tightens.

“You want us to be a real family?” I ask.

He nods. “You make my mom smile like she used to. Before the internet people were mean.”