After lunch, Margaret claps her hands together with the enthusiasm of a grandmother who's been waiting months for this moment.
"Richard, let's take our precious grandchildren to see the koi pond. Elena, you look exhausted. Why don't you rest a bit?"
"I should come…" I start, but Margaret waves me off.
"Nonsense. We're perfectly capable of managing our grandchildren for an hour.”
Adrian touches my shoulder briefly. "I need to call Tokyo. The merger documents need reviewing." He disappears into his father's study without waiting for a response.
Adrian's parents and I walk up to the nursery. Margaret lifting our daughter from her bouncer, Richard does the same with our son.
"Oh my goodness," Margaret says suddenly, pressing her hand to her chest. "We were so excited about finally meeting them that we never asked—what are their names?
“Right,” Richard nodded with the same facial expression. “Adrian kept saying you hadn't decided yet, but surely by now..."
I freeze, realizing we've gone this entire visit without using their names. Adrian and I have been calling them "the twins" or "little man" and "little one," dancing around this most basic question.
"I… The boy is Gatsby."
"Gatsby?" Richard raises an eyebrow, but there's amusement in his voice. "Like the fish?"
"Like the dreamer," I correct softly. "Someone who believes in the green light, in possibility, even when it seems impossible."
"And our granddaughter?" Margaret asks, looking at the girl in her hands with pure admiration.
"Catrice." The name catches in my throat. "Like my mother's name."
The room goes quiet. Margaret's eyes fill with tears as she reaches for my hand. "Oh, Elena. She would have been so proud. So very proud."
Richard clears his throat, clearly emotional. "Well then. Gatsby and Catrice. Perfect names for perfect grandchildren."
Soon I let Adrian's parents take the twins away while I take a little walk around the mansion. I wander around like a spirit, my fingers trailing along familiar surfaces.
Every room holds a memory of how my life used to be.
My phone buzzes. Henri, again. His messages have been growing needier since my curt response at lunch.
Henri: "Send me something to look at, ma chérie. Something to remind me of what I'm missing. Something we missed because of your quick change of plans."
The request makes my stomach flutter with equal parts guilt and desire. I've been cold to him, and Henri doesn't deserve my distance when he's been nothing but devoted. When he's been everything Adrian wasn't—attentive, romantic, present.
I find myself in the powder room, the one with the antique mirror and marble counter. My hands shake as I lock the door, my heart racing like a teenager's about to do something forbidden.
This is insane. I'm in my mother-in-law's house, wearing a conservative dress appropriate for grandparents, playing happy family.
But underneath...
I lift my navy dress, revealing the black lace I'd worn for my canceled date with Henri. The contrast is stark—the woman who plays the perfect mother and the woman who wants to be desired, both existing in the same body.
Before I can second-guess myself, I angle my phone, trying to capture just enough—the lace against my skin, the curve of my hip, the suggestion of more.
I hit send, then immediately lock my phone, unable to face his response. My reflection in the antique mirror looks flushed, guilty, torn between two worlds I've created and can no longer control.
I need air. The walls feel too close, the house too full of memories and lies. I escape through the side door to the garden, hoping the outside breeze will clear my head.
But I stop short at the sight before me.
Adrian is sprawled on a blanket under the massive oak tree, both twins on his chest. He's lifting them like airplanes, one at a time, making engine noises that have them shrieking with delight.
"Captain Catrice coming in for landing!" Adrian swooshes our daughter through the air.
His laugh—God, his laugh.
It's genuine, unguarded, something I haven't heard in years. Not since before the fertility treatments, before the coldness set in, before we became strangers sharing a house.
"Your turn, little man," he says to Gatsby, lifting him high. "Ready for takeoff?"
My chest constricts painfully.
Adrian's eyes find mine across the lawn, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. I see it in his face—he's thinking the same impossible thoughts. What if? What if we'd been stronger? What if we'd trusted more?
What if, what if, what if?
Then he smiles—soft, almost shy, nothing like the CEO mask he usually wears. He points me out to our twins. "Look. Mama's here."
The simple gesture breaks something in me. My legs move without my permission, carrying me across the grass on unsteady feet.
I sink onto the blanket beside them, the space between Adrian and me carefully maintained but somehow feeling smaller than it has in months.
"They love this," Adrian says quietly, settling both babies between us. "I used to dream about doing this. During all those treatments, all those negative tests. I'd picture myself teaching them to fly."
"Adrian…"
"I know," he cuts me off gently. "I know it's too late for what-ifs. I just... seeing them like this, happy and safe... it's everything I wanted and thought I'd never have."
Gatsby reaches for my hair, yanking with his surprisingly strong grip. I laugh, untangling his fingers. "Easy, little man. That's attached."
"He's got your determination," Adrian says. "And she has your smile. Look, she's doing it now."
Our daughter is indeed smiling, that gummy baby grin that makes my heart melt every time.
Without thinking, I lean down to kiss her cheek, and Adrian does the same from his side. For a moment, we're both hovering over her, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from him.
"We made beautiful babies," he says softly.
"We did," I agree, my voice barely a whisper.
For this stolen afternoon, we let ourselves pretend. Pretend that the divorce papers aren't waiting on my kitchen counter. Pretend that Henri isn't waiting for my response to the photo I just sent.
Pretend that we're the family we should have been, could have been, if we'd been different people, stronger people, better people.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—Henri's response, no doubt. But I don't reach for it, not now.
I let it burn there, unread, while I sit in this garden with my husband who isn't really my husband anymore, playing with our children, pretending that some things aren't broken beyond repair.