Chapter 9: The Unseen Currents
1156 Words
Ava’s POV
Rain drums against the flower shop windows as I trim rose stems. The bell jingles, and I look up to see Daniel shaking water from his coat, a manila envelope tucked under his arm.
"Hey," he says, hesitating near the door. "I was in the neighborhood."
Marlene raises an eyebrow from behind the counter but says nothing.
I wipe my hands on my apron. "Sophie's at school."
"I know." He holds out the envelope. "These are for you. The finalized custody agreement."
The words land like stones. Even though we'd discussed it, even though I'd signed the drafts—holding the official papers makes it real in a new way.
I take the envelope but don't open it. "You didn't have to deliver these in person."
"I wanted to." His gaze flicks to the roses in my hands. "You always hated thorns."
A memory surfaces—me bandaging his finger after he'd grabbed a rose stem carelessly at our wedding. *i***t*, I'd whispered, pressing a kiss to the cut.
I set the roses aside. "I learned to handle them."
Daniel exhales sharply, like the words hit deeper than I intended. "Ava—"
The shop phone rings. Marlene answers, her voice too loud in the sudden tension.
Daniel steps back. "I should go."
He turns up his collar against the rain. For a fleeting moment, I want to call him back—to ask if he remembers our first date, when he gave me his jacket during a downpour.
But the door closes behind him, and the moment passes.
Daniel’s POV
The law office smells like leather and expensive coffee.
Matthews taps the papers on his desk. "Everything's in order. Joint custody, decision-making parity, first right of refusal for childcare."
I stare at the signature lines—Ava's neat cursive beside my block letters. "She didn't fight me on anything."
"You gave her no reason to." Matthews leans back. "Frankly, Daniel, this is the most amicable divorce I've seen in twenty years."
The word divorce still jars me.
Outside, the rain has stopped. I walk past the flower shop without looking in.
Sophie’s POV
Mommy's eyes are red when she picks me up from school.
"Did you cry?" I ask as she buckles me in.
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Just allergies, bug."
I press my palm to her cheek like she does when I have a fever. "You feel sad."
She turns her face to kiss my palm. "Sometimes grown-ups get sad about grown-up things."
At home, I make her a card with all the stickers from my collection. When I give it to her, she cries again—but this time she laughs too.
Grown-ups are confusing.
Ava’s POV
The custody agreement sits unopened on my kitchen counter for three days.
Finally, after Sophie's asleep, I pour a glass of wine and break the seal.
Joint legal custody. Alternating weekends. Holidays divided evenly.
Page twelve catches my eye: Neither parent shall speak disparagingly of the other in the child's presence.
My throat tightens. Daniel added that clause—not his lawyer.
At the bottom, a Post-it note in his handwriting: However you want to explain this to Sophie, I'll support it. -D
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes.
This is what respect looks like.
It shouldn't feel so much like grief.
Daniel’s POV
The support group meets at the community center this week.
Marcus slaps my back. "You look like hell."
"I finalized the custody agreement."
"Ah." He passes me a coffee. "The paperwork makes it real."
I stare into the steaming cup. "I keep waiting for the anger to hit. The part where I blame her for giving up on us."
"And?"
I think of Ava's hands trimming rose stems, how she'd learned to handle thorns without flinching. "She didn't give up. I wore her down."
Marcus nods. "First step's seeing it. Next step's making sure you don't do it again."
The facilitator calls us to order. For once, I don't dread sharing.
Ava’s POV
Sophie finds the envelope the next morning.
"What's this?" She pokes at it with syrup-sticky fingers.
I take a deep breath. "It's about how Daddy and I are going to take care of you."
She c***s her head. "Like rules?"
"Like a plan." I kneel to her level. "You'll spend time at both our houses, and we'll both come to your school events, and—"
"And you won't live together anymore." Her voice is small but certain.
My eyes burn. "No, baby. We won't."
Sophie considers this, then shrugs. "Okay. Can I have pancakes?"
The simplicity of her acceptance undoes me.
Later, I text Daniel: She knows. Took it better than expected.
His reply comes hours later: Kids are resilient. Wish we were more like them.
I stare at the message until my screen goes dark.
Daniel’s POV
My sister calls for the first time in two years.
"Mom's freaking out about your email," she says without greeting.
I lean against my kitchen counter. "Hi to you too, Leah."
A pause. Then, quieter: "You're really in therapy?"
"Yeah."
"Good." The word cracks. "About damn time."
I close my eyes. Leah's marriage ended five years ago—her husband's temper escalating from words to broken dishes to a bruised wrist. I'd called him an asshole but never asked if she was okay.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She exhales shakily. "Me too."
We talk until midnight.
Ava’s POV
Marlene teaches me how to propagate succulents—breaking off leaves, letting them dry before planting.
"Some things need to wither a bit before they grow roots," she says, pressing a calloused finger to a jade leaf.
I think of Daniel's note. However you want to explain this to Sophie.
Maybe some breaks lead to new growth.
Maybe not all endings are failures.
Sophie’s POV
Daddy's house smells different now—like oranges instead of coffee.
He lets me help make dinner, even when I spill flour everywhere. Afterward, we build a blanket fort in the living room.
"Are you and Mommy still friends?" I ask from inside our pillow fortress.
Daddy's quiet for a long time. "We're trying to be."
I poke my head out. "Try harder."
He laughs, but his eyes look wet. "Yeah, kiddo. I will."
Daniel’s POV
Dr. Bennett assigns a new exercise: List what you loved about Ava beyond what she did for you.
1. The way she hums off-key in the shower.
2. Her stubbornness—how she’d rather get lost than ask for directions.
3. The face she makes when solving a hard crossword clue.
The list fills two pages.
For the first time, I wonder if Ava knows any of this. If I ever told her.
I fold the paper into quarters and tuck it into my wallet.
One day, maybe, I'll have the right to give it to her.
Not yet.
But maybe.
- Writer
