"Don't you think it's a bit irresponsible to leave the twins with a stranger?"
The twins are completely peaceful in his arms, our daughter's tiny hand wrapped around his index finger, our son's face pressed against his chest.
"You're in no position to tell me about irresponsibility," I snap, moving toward him with my arms outstretched. "Give them to me."
He doesn't resist as I carefully take our daughter first, her weight familiar and comforting in my arms. When I reach for our son, our hands brush, and I hate that I still feel that electric current between us.
I settle both babies in their bassinets, taking longer than necessary to adjust their blankets, needing the distance from Adrian's presence that fills my tiny apartment like smoke.
"A person who abandoned their own children has no right to their own opinion," I say, still facing the bassinets. "You don't get to waltz in here and judge my choices when you're the reason I'm making them alone."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. I can feel Adrian watching me, and when I finally turn around, he's standing by my thrift store couch.
He’s looking as out of place in his Tom Ford suit as a swan in a puddle.
"Why did you come?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, partly defensive, partly to hide that my breasts are starting to leak again. "How did you even get in here?"
"Mrs. Chen let me in. I told her I’m the father."
“And she believed you? Just like that?”
Adrian's prolonged pause made it clear I wouldn't like the answer. And so it turned out. “I made a duplicate of the keys.” He finally says.
“You did what?!” I lost my temper again. “How dare you make these decisions without me?! Without my permission!"
"Elena, I want to help," Adrian stops me from raging. "I'm going to help you take care of the twins. I want to be part of their upbringing."
The laugh that escapes me is bitter, hollow, echoing off the water-stained walls.
"Now? After eight months of complete silence? After telling me to abort them?" I keep my voice low, aware of the sleeping babies, but each word is sharp as glass. "You've got to be kidding me."
Adrian runs his hands through his hair—that gesture I once found endearing when he was stressed about a big deal or a difficult client. Now it just looks like weakness, like a man grasping for control he's already lost.
"I was wrong."
The words sound simple, but they seem to physically pain him.
"Vivian lied about everything. She fed me stories about you having affairs, about you being seen with other men. She showed me receipts from hotels, restaurants I knew you'd never been to with me. I was stupid to believe her."
It's not quite an apology, because Adrian Blackwood doesn't apologize. He acquires, he negotiates, he wins, but he doesn't apologize. Still, it's the closest I've ever heard him come to admitting fault.
"Look where your stupidity got us, Adrian," I say, gesturing around the cramped apartment. “This ceiling leaks when it rains. The heat barely works. I'm living on ramen and prayers while trying to breastfeed two babies."
"I know," he says quietly. "That's why I want to help. They need—"
"What they needed was a father who believed in them from the start," I interrupt. "What they needed was parents who were together, not a mother scrambling to survive while their father was fucking his secretary."
Adrian flinches at my crudeness, but I don't care. I'm past caring about his sensibilities.
"I never slept with Vivian," he says, and I actually laugh again.
"Oh, well, that changes everything then. You just emotionally cheated, chose her over your pregnant wife, but at least you didn't fuck her. Father of the year."
His eyes drift to the kitchen table, and I see the moment he notices them—the divorce papers, still spread out where I left them three days ago, unsigned.
Adrian’s jaw tightens, that muscle jumping the way it does when he's trying to control his emotions.
"You haven't signed them," he observes, his voice carefully neutral.
"I've been a little busy giving birth to twins alone," I fire back. "Surprisingly, legal documents weren't my top priority while I was in labor for fourteen hours with no one to hold my hand."
"Elena…"
"No," I cut him off. "You don't get to stand in my apartment and act like you have any say in anything."
Adrian moves toward the door, and for a moment I think he's actually going to leave, that this will be it. But he pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at me.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he says, his voice carrying that CEO authority I used to find sexy. "With supplies. Formula, diapers, whatever you need."
"I don't want your—"
"Whether you like it or not, they're my children too," he says, cutting me off for once. "I may have failed as a husband, Elena, but I won't fail as their father."
"You already have," I say, but my voice lacks conviction because I'm thinking about my bank account with $47 in it, the formula that costs $30 a can, the pediatrician bill for $400 sitting unopened on my counter.
"Then let me try to fix it," he says, and for a moment, he sounds like the Adrian I fell in love with—determined, passionate, ready to move mountains.
"I'll be here at nine tomorrow morning. Be ready to give me a list of everything you need." He opens the door, then turns back one more time. "You look beautiful, by the way. Green was always your color."
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in my tiny apartment that still smells like his cologne, staring at the closed door while my heart wars with itself.
The twins start to stir, making those small sounds that mean they'll want to eat soon. I look at them, then at the divorce papers on the table, then at the door Adrian just walked through.
"Your daddy's trying to come back," I whisper to them. "And Mama doesn't know if letting him is the biggest mistake she'll ever make or the only choice she has."
I pick up the pen and hover it over the signature line on the divorce papers. All it would take is my name, and I'd be free of him forever. But my hand won't move, and I hate myself for the hope that still flickers in my chest.
The pen drops from my fingers without me finishing signing the papers.