Shawn had always believed himself to be a man of reason. But standing outside his daughter's door that night, hearing the words "Does Daddy not love me?" from Tiana's tiny voice, shattered something inside him.
The guilt clung to his skin like wet clothes, heavy and unforgiving. He didn't sleep that night. Not really. He lay beside Naledi — a stranger he had legally bound himself to — and stared at the ceiling, playing every missed moment in his head like an old film reel.
The next morning, everything changed.
For the first time in years, Shawn woke up before everyone else. He brewed coffee, made breakfast for everyone, and walked into the room with two uniforms freshly ironed. Naledi blinked at him, confused.
"I'll drop them today," he said simply.
And he did.
He drove Tiana to preschool, her tiny hand holding his from the backseat as she asked questions about clouds. Then Lincoln, to his middle school, with music playing softly in the background.
He called home at lunchtime, just to check in.
When he realized he'd be late that Wednesday, he called again — just to say goodnight to the kids and apologize.
It became a pattern.
He started coming home early. He sat at the dining table with them. Helped Lincoln with his math homework. Read bedtime stories to Tiana in silly voices that made her giggle so hard she hiccupped. Naledi watched it all quietly. She didn't say much. She didn't smile either — at least not at him.
The kids were happy. That much was clear. Tiana clung to him like a star to the night sky, and Lincoln began to confide in him. They talked about school, his favorite anime, and his frustrations.
But Naledi… she was a fortress.
She never stopped him from helping. She never stood in his way. She acknowledged his presence with politeness, like a guest overstaying in someone's home. No matter how many times he tried to talk, she shut him down.
"You don't need to pretend to be interested in me," she told him one evening, folding laundry without looking up. "You're turning into a good father. That's enough."
"I'm not pretending."
"You don't owe me anything. We both know this is a contractual marriage."
He clenched his jaw. "It doesn't have to stay that way."
She turned to him slowly. "Why now, Shawn? Why now do you suddenly want to play the role of husband?"
"I want to be better."
"For whom? For me? Or for your guilt?"
That cut deeper than it should've.
Still, he didn't stop.
He came home with flowers. Red roses, white lilies, bright tulips. He never explained them. Just placed them in her hands, quietly. Naledi never threw them away — she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she arranged them in vases and put them by the window. When they wilted, he brought more.
He planned dates — dinners at elegant restaurants, walks in the park, late-night drives with soft music. She came, dressed beautifully, and sat across from him like porcelain, present but unreachable.
He asked questions. She answered with one word.
And when it became too heavy to carry alone, Naledi went to the one place she still felt like herself.
The library.
Max noticed the stress instantly. "You look like you're trying to disappear."
She chuckled, half-heartedly. "I might be."
He handed her a cup of instant coffee. "Tell me what's up." He already knew about her relationship with Shawn and how she got married to him.
"I don't know if I should try to forgive him," she said, stirring the coffee without sipping. "I don't know if people change."
Max leaned back in his chair. "Do you believe you've changed since we met?"
She blinked. "Of course."
"Then why not believe the same for him?"
Naledi looked away.
"I'm not saying forget everything," he continued gently. "But people don't stay broken if they want to heal. Everyone deserves a second chance if they're trying to be better."
For days, his words lingered in her mind.
The next time Shawn brought her flowers — delicate orchids in soft lavender — she looked up at him and said, "Thank you."
She had never said anything. Naledi was always silent.
He smiled, surprised. "You're welcome."
That weekend, she sat next to him on the couch and didn't flinch when he reached for her hand.
Slowly, Naledi began to let down her guard. She'd always been strong, always kept her emotions walled off, but something inside her wanted peace. For the children. For herself.
One night, she whispered, "If we're going to try, you have to go back to therapy. Heal for real. Not just pretend to."
Shawn nodded without hesitation.
Therapy was brutal. It opened wounds he didn't know he had. His late wife's death. The guilt. The pressure. The numbness. But he kept going. He wrote letters he never sent. He cried in private. He showed up for himself so he could show up for them.
And it made a difference.
He began to communicate — truly communicate. He told Naledi how he felt, even if it wasn't poetic. He apologized without justifying. He learned how to love — not in grand gestures, but in the small moments: folding her blanket, remembering how she takes her tea, holding her hand when she looked overwhelmed.
They cleared out the house. Took down old memories.
His late wife's photos were wrapped in soft cloth and placed in the attic with respect.
In their place, photos of now filled the walls — candid shots of Lincoln playing football, Tiana's painting framed in gold, family portraits where everyone smiled, even Naledi.
Time, as it often does, softened the edges.
One year passed. Then another. By the third year, they had traditions — birthdays at the beach, movie nights every Saturday, family dinners with terrible singing.
In the fourth year, Shawn woke up to the sound of laughter — real, unfiltered, Naledi's laugh — and thought this is home.
Until the phone rang.
He answered it casually, still smiling from whatever joke Tiana had just made. But the moment he heard the voice on the other end, his smile fell.
His heart dropped to his stomach.
Naledi looked up from the sink. "Everything okay?"
Shawn didn't answer right away.
He nodded, lips pressed tight. "Yeah. Just… work stuff."
But when she turned back around, he stayed frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, his mind reeling.