Chapter One
1563 Words
Sunlight spilled gently through the lace curtains of the Abbott estate’s breakfast nook, catching in golden pools on the polished wooden floor. The kitchen hummed with the clinks of ceramic plates and the distant melody of a morning cartoon playing in the den.
Monet stood by the stove, barefoot, stirring scrambled eggs with one hand while the other rested lightly on her hip. She moved with practiced ease as if the rhythm of this morning — every toast flip, every juice pour — was stitched into her muscle memory. Because it was.
“Monet,” came the familiar soft voice.
Monet turned. Meredith stood at the kitchen entrance, her oversized pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder, braids slightly fuzzy from sleep. The eight-year-old clutched her teddy against her chest.
"Can I sit on the counter today? Just for a little bit?"
Monet arched a brow but smiled. "Only if you promise not to swing your legs. I don’t want you kicking the juice again."
Meredith giggled and hopped up with Monet’s help. “Carter’s still sleepy. He didn’t want to wake up.”
“Mm.” Monet turned the heat off and plated the eggs. “He’s had a long week. You both have.”
“Is something wrong?” Meredith asked suddenly, her tone too grown for her age.
Monet paused. The spoon lingered over the eggs.
“No, sweetheart,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just grown-up things. Eat your eggs, okay?”
From the hallway, tiny footsteps pattered in irregular beats.
Carter appeared in the doorway, a sleepy frown carved into his small face. He held his threadbare stuffed bunny in one arm, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. At three-and-a-half, he was all cheeks and mood.
Monet immediately crouched. "Hey, baby bear. Come here."
Carter shuffled over and melted into her arms with a soft whimper. “No school?” he mumbled.
“Nope. Saturday. You’re free.”
He nodded into her neck, still half-asleep, and Monet carried him to his booster seat.
Just as she was tucking his napkin into place, the back door opened.
Richard Abbott entered with the morning paper under one arm, phone in the other, suit jacket missing but his dress shirt crisp and sleeves rolled.
His eyes scanned the room — his daughter perched on the counter, his son pouting over juice, and Monet, in a soft blue blouse and apron, like a scene lifted from memory.
“Morning,” he said, setting the paper down.
“Morning, Daddy!” Meredith called.
Carter just grumbled something that sounded vaguely like "hi."
Monet gave Richard a brief nod. “Coffee’s hot. Breakfast is ready. I made eggs and the toast the way you like it."
Richard hesitated. Something in his chest tightened as he watched her gently coax Carter into eating a bite.
This was their normal.
But not for much longer.
He sat. Picked up a piece of toast. And said nothing.
They all had a secret tucked behind their morning smiles. But only two of them knew the storm was coming.
Only two of them knew that everything was about to change.
“So how was your date last night?” Meredith asked softly between bites. “Daddy had to tuck us in last night and Carter was grumbling the entire time.”
Monet paused from lifting a forkful of eggs to her mouth, her eyes meeting with Richard's over the kid's bowed heads.
Silent communication ensued, and it was broken when Carter and Meredith began to squabble over the last pieces of toast.
Monet had to turn away, at what she saw in Richard's eyes. He didn't try to mask his hurt this time, and she saw his feelings clearly and she got the message that he wanted to tell the kids and be over with it.
“Dr. Benson asked me to marry him.” The silence that ensued at her words was deafening. “I said yes.”
Three pairs of eyes watched her—two had their mouths gaping, and the oldest just looked coldly at his coffee mug.
Monet tried to smile, “No congratulations, hm Meredith? You get to be a flower girl.”
Clear cornflower blue eyes, so similar to Richard's, in emotions and otherwise fixed on her. “You're leaving?”
“No baby,” Monet began but stopped short at the fear on Meredith's face. “Yes. But it's not happening now.”
Carter was on the verge of tears at his sister's words, and he turned to look at her, his earlier grumpiness returning tenfold. He obviously fully didn't understand what was happening, but he picked up on emotions, and the emotions were charged in the kitchen.
Monet sighed, picking up Carter, who hugged her tightly. She gave her hand to Meredith, but the eight-year-old only took it to come down from the counter and then ran straight to the back stairs leading to the second landing.
A lone tear tracked Monet's cheek, she knew exactly the emotions that were coursing through Meredith, and it hurt that she'd be responsible for them.
It hurt more than anything.
“Don't go, Monny,” Carter mumbled into her neck, his breath shaky and her neck where he burrowed damp with obvious tears.
She met Richard's clear gaze over the top of Carter's unruly curls; it wasn't as harsh as it had been earlier. It was just there, no emotions. Exactly how they'd be every other morning when they'd have breakfast in the morning.
She needed to leave.
“Let's go get you bathed, and then we'll go to the park and then ice cream.” Only a mumble of agreement reached her from Carter who hadn't released his hold on her even for an inch.
Richard sat there for a moment after they left, eyes fixed on the table, his toast untouched.
He wasn’t sure how long he remained that way, but the silence around him was suffocating. The kitchen that had once buzzed with Saturday mornings — cartoons, spilled juice, squealing laughter — now felt like the hollow echo of something he couldn't name.
She said yes.
He dragged a hand through his hair.
Monet was getting married.
Not to him.
And that was the part that shouldn’t hurt. But did. Like hell.
He exhaled deeply, folding the newspaper he’d pretended to care about and rising slowly from the chair. The toast remained, cold and untouched, but Carter’s stuffed bunny had fallen beside the seat. Richard bent to pick it up and held it in his hand for a moment longer than necessary.
The bunny had seen more of their lives than most people.
Just like Monet had.
She’d come into their world at the worst possible time — twenty-six with her impressive resume, big smile, and kind, warm eyes. Meredith hadn’t smiled for days back then. Carter had screamed himself hoarse every night. And Richard…
Well, he’d been running on guilt and caffeine, barely surviving.
Then Monet happened.
And slowly, painfully, they’d begun to heal.
He climbed the stairs, each footfall heavy. The upstairs hallway was dim, sunlight only brushing the ends through the curtained windows. He found Meredith in her room — curled in a corner of her bed, hugging a second teddy to her chest. Her little shoulders shook.
He hesitated at the door, unsure if he should intrude. But a part of him—no, all of him—knew he had to.
“Mer,” he said gently, crouching beside her bed. “Can I come in?”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t say no. He took that as permission and sat at the edge of her mattress.
“She’s leaving us.”
Richard winced. “Not exactly.”
“She said yes.”
He nodded. “She did.”
“She doesn’t love us anymore?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Meredith, look at me.”
She turned. Her eyes — his eyes — rimmed red and angry.
“Monet loves you and Carter more than anything,” he said firmly. “That’s not going to change. Not even if she lives somewhere else.”
“But it won’t be the same.”
“No. It won’t.” He was quiet for a moment. “And I know that’s hard.”
“Why did she say yes? Why didn’t she want to stay here? With us?”
He didn’t have the answer. Not the kind a child could hear without bitterness.
“She thinks this is what’s best for her,” He said softly as possible. “And we have to be happy for her.”
“But what about us?”
His throat tightened. “I ask myself that every day, sweetheart.”
Silence settled again.
“She’s not my mom, you know,” Meredith whispered. “But she kind of is.”
Richard reached out, brushing her hair gently. “I know.”
“I wish she really was.”
He blinked hard. Kissed the top of her head.
Meredith didn’t cry after that. She just curled into his side, small and quiet, and Richard held her as tightly as he could.
And in that moment, he realized something terrifying.
They couldn’t lose Monet.
They wouldn’t survive it.
And maybe… maybe neither would he.
- Writer
