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I thought about the past weeks, the easy mornings making breakfast together, the quiet evenings helping with homework, the way Colby looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. Had those moments been real, or just the result of forced intimacy?
“What if I’m wrong?” I said finally. “What if what I think I feel is just . . . convenience? What if I’m just a placeholder until he finds someone better?”
“Has he given you any reason to think that?”
I thought about the women he’s dated before, the women who had tried to build something lasting with Colby and had been pushed for some reason or the other. As his best friend, he never confided in me as to why he broke up with them, just that things didn’t work out.
“I’ve always beenon the sideline watching him fumble his way through relationships. The first after Gabrielle was Sarah. She tried so hard to be part of his and Luca’s life, but when she started talking about moving in together, Colby panicked and ended things. Then came Rebecca. She lasted six months before he found reasons to pull away.”
“People can change. Especially when they find the right person.”
“How do you know if you’re the right person or just the convenient person?”
Summer was quiet for a moment, considering. “I think you ask yourself this: If Colby didn’t need anything from you—no help with Luca, no domestic support, nothing—would you still want to be with him?”
The question stopped me cold. If I stripped away all the practical reasons for our arrangement, all the ways I’d become useful to him and Luca, what was left?
The answer came immediately, with a clarity that surprised me. I would still want the man who ate nothing but vanilla ice cream and listened patiently to his son’s rambling stories. I would still want the man who worked with his hands to create beautiful things, who kissed my forehead when he thought I was asleep, who looked at me sometimes like I was precious and rare.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Then that’s your answer. The rest is just fear talking.”
After Summer left, I spent the morning wrestling with her words while I worked on arrangements for the weekend’s weddings. Two brides, both radiating joy and certainty as they planned their futures with the men they loved. I’d helped create the flowers for dozens of weddings over the years, but today the symbolism felt pointed, almost mocking.
If Colby didn’t need anything from you—no help with Luca, no domestic support, nothing—would you still want to be with him?
But wanting him and trusting that he wanted me—really wanted me, not just needed me—were two different things. Lyla’s accusations from their coffee meeting still stung because they held a grain of truth. I was convenient. I was available. I was already woven into the fabric of their lives.
The question was whether I was also loved.
By lunch time, I’d decided to close the shop early and go home. Maybe Summer was right. Maybe Luca was picking up on our tension, and that wasn’t fair to him. We needed to find a way to coexist peacefully, even if we couldn’t bridge the emotional distance between us.
The house was quiet when I arrived, Colby’s truck gone from the driveway. I remembered he had a delivery across town, something about custom cabinets for a law office. Luca would be at school for another two hours, giving me time to think without the pressure of maintaining a facade.
I was in the kitchen making tea when my phone rang. Unknown number, but local area code.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Marshall? This is Janet from Millbrook Elementary. I’m calling about Luca.”
My heart stopped. “Is he hurt? What happened?”
“He’s fine, physically. But he had an incident during lunch recess. He got into an argument with another student and ended up in the principal’s office. He’s asked for you specifically.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The drive to the school took eight minutes that felt like hours. I called Colby twice, but both times it went straight to voicemail. He was probably in the middle of his installation, tools running too loud to hear his phone.
I found Luca sitting in the main office, his small legs swinging from an adult-sized chair. His face showed streaks of tears, and grass stains covered his shirt from whatever had happened on the playground.
“Mom,” he said when he saw me, and threw himself into my arms.
I held him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of his strawberry shampoo mixed with playground dirt. “Hey, sweetheart. What happened?”
“Tommy Morrison said mean things about you,” he said against my shoulder, his voice muffled but angry. “He said you’re not my real mom because you don’t look like me and you just moved in with us.”
The words were like a knife to my chest.