Chapter 10: The Breaking Point
1267 Words
Ava’s POV
The first time Sophie wakes up screaming from a nightmare in the new apartment, I’m not prepared.
“I want Daddy!” she sobs into my shoulder, her small fists clutching my shirt.
I rock her back and forth, whispering nonsense into her hair. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM.
My thumb hovers over Daniel’s contact. Don’t, I tell myself. You can handle this.
But her cries escalate to hyperventilation, and before I can stop myself—
Calling Daniel…
He answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep but alert. “Ava? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sophie. She’s—”
“Put me on speaker.”
I do. The second Sophie hears his voice, her wails stutter.
“Hey, Supergirl,” Daniel murmurs through the phone. “Daddy’s here.”
Her breath hitches. “You—you’re not here—”
“Look out your window.”
Confused, I carry Sophie to the bedroom window. The streetlight flickers on the empty sidewalk below.
“See the moon?” Daniel says softly. “Same one above my house. That means I’m looking at it right now too. We’re connected.”
Sophie sniffles. “Really?”
“Cross my heart.”
I press my lips together to keep from making a sound. This man—the same one who once scoffed at “emotional nonsense”—just spun poetry to calm our daughter at 2 AM.
“Can you sing the space song?” Sophie whispers.
And he does. The same silly astronaut lullaby he made up when she was a baby. By the second verse, her eyelids droop.
When her breathing evens out, Daniel says quietly, “Ava?”
“Still here.”
A pause. Then, so quiet I almost miss it: “You did good.”
Something inside me fractures.
I hang up before he hears me cry.
Daniel’s POV
The phone call lingers.
I sit on my back porch as dawn breaks, nursing a coffee, replaying Ava’s shaky exhale before she disconnected.
Dr. Bennett’s words echo: You spent years making her doubt herself. It’ll take more than a few months to undo that.
My phone buzzes—a text from Ava: Thank you. She slept through the rest of the night.
I type and delete three responses before settling on: Anytime. How are you?
The dots appear. Disappear.
Tired, she finally replies. Then, surprising me: Do you want to come for breakfast? Sophie keeps asking for you.
I stare at the message. This isn’t in our custody agreement. This isn’t required.
This is Ava offering an olive branch at 6 AM after the hardest night we’ve had since the separation.
My fingers tremble as I type: I’ll bring pancakes.
Sophie’s POV
Daddy comes over in his pajama pants!
He makes funny faces while flipping pancakes. Mommy laughs—really laughs—for the first time in forever.
When he leaves, he kisses my forehead and then… hesitates.
Mommy steps forward. Just a little.
Daddy hugs her. Quick, but there.
“See you Wednesday,” he says.
Mommy nods. “See you.”
Something in the air feels different. Like when you open a window after winter and the first spring breeze comes in.
Ava’s POV
The hug lasts less than three seconds.
But long enough for me to notice—
No tension in his shoulders.
No possessive grip.
Just warmth. And apology. And something that might be hope.
I close the door softly behind him.
Sophie tugs my hand. “Can we plant flowers today?”
I blink away the moisture in my eyes. “Yeah, baby. Let’s grow something.”
Daniel’s POV
Marcus whistles when I tell him about breakfast. “Damn. Progress.”
We’re at our usual coffee spot, reviewing our weekly “emotional homework.” His task was to apologize to his ex for missing their daughter’s recital. Mine was to ask Ava what she needs from me.
I rub my temple. “I chickened out on the last part.”
“No shit.” Marcus sips his black coffee. “What’re you afraid of?”
The answer comes too easily: “That she’ll say nothing.”
That after all this work, it’ll be too late.
Marcus studies me. “You know what my therapist said? That recovery isn’t about earning forgiveness. It’s about becoming someone who deserves it.”
The distinction sits with me all day.
Ava’s POV
Sophie and I plant marigolds in pots on the balcony. She chatters about school while patting soil with her tiny hands.
“—and Kayla said her parents got divorced but then they got married again!”
I nearly drop the watering can. “That… doesn’t usually happen, bug.”
She shrugs. “Daddy’s nicer now.”
The observation stuns me with its simplicity.
Later, while Sophie naps, I open my laptop and find an unread email from Daniel’s sister.
Leah Reynolds: Coffee?
The last time we spoke was at Sophie’s birthday party—six months before I left. Leah had pulled me aside and said, You deserve better, and I’d brushed her off.
Now I type: Yes. When?
Daniel’s POV
Leah texts me a photo—her and Ava at a café, smiling over cappuccinos.
Don't freak out, the caption reads. Girl talk.
I stare at the image until my eyes burn. Ava’s wearing the sweater I gave her last Christmas. Her hair is sun-streaked. She looks… happy.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Finally, I reply: I’m glad.
Three dots appear.
She loves you, i***t, Leah writes. But she’s scared.
I pocket my phone without responding.
Some truths don’t need replies.
Ava’s POV
Leah stirs her coffee slowly. “He’s trying, you know.”
Sunlight streams through the café window, catching the silver in her bracelet—a gift from me after her divorce.
“I know,” I say softly.
“Do you?” She meets my eyes. “Because the Daniel I grew up with would’ve lawyered up and fought you for full custody out of spite.”
The observation lands heavily. She’s not wrong.
“It’s just—” My voice cracks. “What if he changes back?”
Leah reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Then you’ll leave again. But Ava?” She smiles sadly. “I don’t think he will.”
Daniel’s POV
I find the old shoebox in the back of my closet.
Inside: movie ticket stubs, a dried corsage from our first anniversary, the ultrasound photo from Sophie’s 12-week scan.
Beneath it all, a folded piece of notebook paper.
Ava’s Bucket List (Age 24):
1. See the Northern Lights
2. Learn to make pasta from scratch
3. Write a children’s book
I don’t remember her ever crossing any off.
I take a photo and text it to her: Which one can I help with first?
Her reply takes twenty minutes: You kept that?
Yes, I type. Then, the hardest truth I’ve ever admitted: I should’ve asked sooner.
Ava’s POV
I stare at the photo of my girlish handwriting, blurred by time and poor lighting.
Sophie colors beside me, oblivious to my racing heart.
Daniel texts again: Pasta lesson? I’ll chop, you’ll roll. Sophie can be taste-tester.
A peace offering. A do-over.
Not as husband and wife.
Just as two people who once loved each other, learning how to do it better.
I type: Okay.
Then, before I can overthink it: Bring wine.
Three dots appear.
Red or white? he asks.
I smile. Surprise me.
- Writer
