Lizzy pov
The afternoon slows just enough for me to step away.
By then, the rush has passed and the shop has settled into a softer rhythm, students lingering over half-finished coffees, a couple browsing the shelves without urgency, the low hum of conversation blending into something steady and familiar.
I glance at the clock, already knowing I've stayed as long as I can.
"Can you take over for me?" I ask, stepping behind the counter where Lindiwe is restocking cups.
She looks up and smiles. "Of course. Go get your boys."
"Thank you," I say, already reaching for my bag.
There's a small part of me that always hesitates before leaving, like I'm stepping out of one version of myself and back into another. Here, things are contained. Predictable. Mine.
Out there… everything depends on me.
I push the thought aside, grab my keys, and head for the door.
The school pickup line is its usual slow crawl of idling cars and tired parents.
I spot them before they see me.
James stands slightly apart from the crowd, his bag slung over one shoulder, scanning the line with quiet patience. Evan, on the other hand, is in constant motion, shifting from foot to foot, talking to anyone who will listen.
When they finally notice the car, Evan runs.
"Mom!"
He throws the door open and climbs into his carseat before I can even remind him to be careful.
"Can you buckle yourself? " I ask when he settles in.
"Mom, I'm already five. I can do it myself."
James gets in more calmly, pulling the door shut behind him.
"Hey," I say, glancing at him.
"Hey."
"Did you have a good day?"
He shrugs. "It was fine."
That's as much as I'm going to get.
Evan, of course, fills the silence immediately.
"I had soccer today! Coach said I run fast but I need to watch the ball more and—"
"I scored in practice," James cuts in, not looking at me.
I smile. "Did you?"
He nods once, like it's not a big deal.
But it is.
"That's amazing buddy," I say.
He doesn't smile, but he sits a little straighter.
The field is already busy by the time we get there.
Kids running drills, parents gathered along the sidelines, the sharp sound of whistles cutting through the air. I settle onto the bench, watching as James jogs onto the field, already focused.
Evan stays close to me at first, kicking at the dirt, talking in bursts before drifting off toward a group of younger kids.
I keep my eyes on James.
He plays differently during practice than he does at home. More serious. More determined. Like he's trying to prove something.
Every now and then, he glances toward the sidelines. Eyes searching.
I lift my hand slightly when he does, giving him a small wave.
I'm here. I already have to miss games on Saturdays. I won't miss practises too.
My phone rests in my hand.
I check it without thinking.
Still nothing.
The thought comes and goes quickly.
I don't let it linger.
By the time we get home, the sky is beginning to dim.
"Shoes off," I call as I unlock the door. "And hands washed before you touch anything."
"I'm starving," Evan announces, already halfway to the kitchen.
"You're always starving."
"My teacher says it's because I'm growing."
James drops his bag by the door and heads straight for the sink without being told.
I watch them for a moment.
This part is so familiar it feels automatic.
Dinner is quick, something simple, something I don't have to think too much about. The boys talk over each other, arguing about something I half-listen to while I move around them, plating food, refilling drinks, keeping everything moving.
After dinner comes homework.
Then baths.
Water splashes. Laughter echoes down the hallway.
"Not too much water," I call, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm not!" Evan shouts back, which definitely means he is.
James rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching them.
This life
it's full.
It's loud.
It matters.
It should be enough.
Later, when they're finally in bed, the house begins to quiet.
Evan falls asleep quickly, curled into his pillow like he always does.
James takes longer.He always does.
I sit on the edge of his bed, waiting.
"Mom?" he says after a moment.
"Yeah?"
"Did Dad answer you?"
The question catches me off guard.
I hesitate.
"Not yet," I say carefully.
He nods, like he expected that.
"Oh."
I smooth my hand over his hair. "Get some sleep, okay?"
"Okay."
"I love you."
"Love you too."
The house settles into silence after that.
Not all at once, but slowly. Piece by piece.
I move through it on autopilot, picking up toys, turning off lights, straightening things that will be messy again in the morning.
My phone sits on the kitchen counter.
Face up.
Waiting.
I tell myself I'm not.
Still, when it finally buzzes, my heart lifts before I can stop it.
I reach for it too quickly.
Daniel.
Relief comes first.
Then something tighter follows behind it.
I open the message.
Daniel:
Hey. Conference got extended. I won't make it back this weekend. I'll make it up to the boys next week.
I read it once.
Then again.
That's it?
I stare at the screen, waiting for something else to appear.
It doesn't.
No apology.
No explanation.
My chest tightens slightly.
No happy birthday.
The realization settles quietly, but it lands deep.
I let out a slow breath.
It's work. It's important. This is just how things are.
I know that.
Still… My thumb hovers over the screen.
I could say something.
I could remind him.
The thought lingers for a moment.
Then I let it go.
I shouldn't have to remind him he has a wife who needs attention too.
Instead, I type:
Me:
Okay. Safe travels.
I stare at the message before sending it, then press send anyway.
A second later, it delivers.
And that's it. I set my phone down, but I don't move. For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at nothing, feeling something settle in my chest that I don't quite have a name for.
Not anger.
Not even really hurt.
Just… absence.
Later, I sit on the couch with my book open in my lap. The words blur together at first, but eventually they begin to settle, pulling me in the way they always do.
The way the male lead looks at her.
The way he wants her.
Like she's everything. Like nothing else matters except her happiness, her pleasure.
I trace my finger lightly along the edge of the page.
What would that feel like?
To be wanted like that?
To be seen like that?
Not as someone who holds everything together.
Not as someone expected to always be enough.
Just—
wanted.
I close the book slowly, pressing it against my chest, closing my eyes.
If I could make a birthday wish it would be for a man too see me like the ones from my books, to love me like I'm his absolute everything. To be completely and utterly obsessed with me.