During the party, Leo stood holding onto a chair, looked at the room full of adults who had all, in their own flawed ways, fought over him, feared for him, failed him, or learned because of him, and then he did the most ordinary, miraculous thing in the world.
He took three wobbling steps.
Not to Ethan.
Not to me.
To the space between us.
We both lunged on instinct, both laughing, both kneeling, and he collapsed into our joined hands with a delighted shriek like he had invented walking personally.
Everyone clapped.
Maya cried openly and denied it immediately.
Robert looked away and cleared his throat.
Carol pressed her lips together so tightly I knew she was trying not to show emotion, which in her case counted as a public confession.
And I sat back on my heels with my son between us and thought:
This is it.
Not the fantasy I once married for.
Not the perfect family Carol wanted, not the glossy life Victoria tried to defend, not the desperate loneliness I had feared would define me.
Something else.
Something messier and, because of that, more real.
After the party ended and everyone drifted out, Ethan stayed behind to help stack chairs.