Twice Rejected: The Luna Forged in Fire

Chapter 1

SLOANE

I shouldn’t be driving this fast.

The speedometer needle hovers just above the limit, the road blurring into streaks of gray and green as I push the car harder than I should. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale, heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and hope.

I’m tired. Bone‑deep tired.

But today matters.

Caleb’s first junior kindergarten award ceremony.

My son’s first award.

And for once, I want to be the one standing beside him.

Not Hunter or Ava.

Me.

I left the medical conference early, slipping out before the final panel even ended. My colleagues probably think I’m rude. My supervisor will definitely scold me later. But none of that matters.

Caleb matters.

I glance at the small wrapped present on the passenger seat — a set of watercolor pencils he’s been begging for. He loves drawing just like Ava. He’s good at it too. Better than most kids his age. His teachers say he has “an eye for color” and “a natural sense of shape.”

I wanted to be there when he received his award and see his face light up.

I wanted him to see me.

The pack school comes into view, a cluster of brick buildings surrounded by tall pines. The parking lot is full. My stomach sinks.

I’m late.

I pull into the last open spot and grab the present, my fingers trembling. My legs feel heavy as I hurry toward the auditorium, the sound of applause echoing through the open doors.

Please don’t let me have missed it.

Please.

I slip inside quietly, staying close to the wall. The room is packed — parents, pack members, teachers, all gathered in neat rows. The stage is decorated with paper stars and colorful banners. A slideshow of children’s artwork plays on a screen.

I scan the crowd, searching for Hunter.

I find him instantly.

He’s in the front row, right by the aisle, wearing the navy shirt I ironed for him last week. His posture is relaxed, confident, like he belongs there.

And beside him — her arm looped through his — is Ava, in a soft blue dress.

She is smiling like she’s the proud mother.

Ava waved at someone across the room.

My chest tightens.

She lives with us and helps with Caleb. Ava is family. But the way she’s holding Hunter’s arm… The way she leans into him and he doesn’t pull away… It feels wrong.

I swallow hard and slip into an empty seat in the back row. No one notices me. Or maybe they do and choose not to react. I’m used to that — being the quiet one, the busy one, the one who’s always working.

The teacher on stage clears her throat. “And our final award for Outstanding Creativity goes to… Caleb Valehart!”

My heart leaps.

There he is — my little boy — standing up from his seat, cheeks flushed with excitement. He looks around, searching for someone.

Searching for me.

But his eyes land on Hunter instead.

Hunter stands and takes Caleb’s hand. Ava rises too, her hand still on Hunter’s arm as if she has every right to be there.

They walk together toward the stage.

A perfect little trio.

My breath catches. I should be up there. I should be holding his hand. I should be the one he looks for. But I’m in the back row, clutching a present he doesn’t know I brought.

The whispers start immediately.

“Isn’t that the Luna’s job?”

“Why is Ava up there?”

“Poor Sloane… always working.”

“She should make time for her child.”

“No wonder the boy is closer to Ava.”

Each word slices deeper than the last.

I force myself to sit still, to breathe, to smile even though my chest feels like it’s collapsing.

Caleb reaches the teacher and accepts his certificate with a shy grin. He looks so proud. My eyes sting.

The teacher beams. “Let’s get a picture with your family!”

Hunter lifts Caleb into his arms.

Ava steps closer, pressing herself against Hunter’s side.

Caleb wraps an arm around Hunter’s neck.

And then — clear enough for the entire auditorium to hear — he turns to Ava and says:

“Mommy, look! I got an award!”

The world stops.

My heart stops.

Ava’s smile widens, triumphant and soft all at once. She strokes Caleb’s hair like she’s earned the right.

Hunter doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t even flinch.

The whispers grow louder.

“Oh no…”

“That’s not right.”

“Did he just call Ava—?”

“Poor Sloane.”

“She must be devastated.”

I am.

I’m devastated. But I keep smiling. Because if I don’t, I’ll break.

The photographer snaps the picture — Hunter holding Caleb, Ava holding Hunter, all three of them smiling like a perfect family.

And me?

I’m in the last row, invisible, holding a present wrapped in blue paper with tiny stars.

The ceremony ends. Parents stand, chatting and congratulating each other. Children run around with their certificates. Teachers gather near the stage.

I stay seated.

I don’t trust my legs to hold me.

I watch as Hunter and Ava take Caleb to the refreshment table. Ava wipes juice from Caleb’s chin. Hunter ruffles his hair. Caleb laughs, bright and carefree.

He doesn’t look for me. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I swallow the ache rising in my throat and stand slowly. My knees feel weak. My hands shake as I grip the present.

I could go to them and say hello. I could pretend everything is fine.

But I can’t. Not after hearing him call her Mommy.

I slip out of the auditorium quietly, unnoticed. The hallway is empty, the fluorescent lights humming softly. I walk toward the exit, each step heavier than the last.

Outside, the air is cool. The sky is streaked with orange and pink. I inhale deeply, trying to steady myself.

I should be happy for him and proud. I should be grateful he has people who love him. But all I feel is the hollow ache of being replaced.

I sit on a bench near the parking lot, the present still in my lap. I unwrap it slowly, staring at the watercolor pencils inside.

He would have loved them. He still will. But the moment — the moment I wanted — is gone. I close the box gently and press it to my chest. A single tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly.

I just sit there, breathing through the pain, letting it settle into the quiet spaces of my heart.

After a long moment, I stand and walk to my car. I place the present on the passenger seat and grip the steering wheel.

I came all this way to surprise my son.

Instead, I surprised myself.

Because today, for the first time, I realize something I’ve been trying not to see:

I’m losing him.

And I don’t know how to get him back.