Daphne’s POV
The restaurant Charlotte chose is quiet, tucked away in a neighborhood I haven't visited since before the twins were born.
She's already at the table when I arrive, and the sight of her—my friend, my constant from before everything became complicated—makes something crack in my chest.
"Daph." She stands, pulls me into a hug that lasts longer than normal. "You look exhausted."
I slide into the chair across from her, grateful she didn't say I look good when we both know it would be a lie. "That's the nicest way anyone's described me in weeks."
The waiter takes our orders. I ask for water and the first salad I see because I can't focus on food choices right now.
Charlotte orders for both of us like she used to when I was too overwhelmed by single motherhood to make decisions.
When the waiter leaves, Charlotte leans forward. "How are things with Xander?"
The question shouldn't break me. But something about the way she phrases it—not how's your family, not how's the baby, but specifically about Xander and me—punctures whatever composure I've been maintaining.
I tell her everything. About the distance between us that feels like miles even when we're in the same room.
About the night after the gala when we had desperate sex on the hood of the car and I thought maybe we were finding our way back. How we woke up the next morning and didn't know what it meant.
About the nursery incident three days ago when he was holding Hope and I instinctively took her from his arms. The look on his face when he realized what my body had done.
How he'd said "I didn't hurt her" in a voice that made me want to die, then left without another word.
"We keep trying," I say, my throat tight. "We have these moments where it feels like we're connecting. And then something happens and we're strangers again. I don't know how to fix it."
Charlotte listens, her hand finding mine across the table. When I go quiet, she squeezes my fingers.
"Have you thought about what you want?" she asks. "Not what's best for the kids or what makes sense logically. What do you actually want?"
The question sits between us while our food arrives. I pick at the salad. What do I want? I've been so focused on surviving each day that I haven't let myself think about wanting anything.
My hand moves to my purse. I pull out my wallet, and tucked behind my credit cards is the business card I've been carrying for three days. Melissa Parker, Family Law Attorney. Professional, discrete, experienced with high-asset divorces.
I set it on the table between us.
Charlotte's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look shocked. Just sad. "How long have you had that?"
"Since Monday. I went in for a consultation, learned about division of assets and custody arrangements."
My voice sounds strange.
"Did you know that with Xander's resources, a custody battle could be brutal? That Eleanor's concerns about my mental state could be used against me? That I might not get primary custody of my own children?"
The words taste like ash. Divorce. This is Xander—the man I love, the father of my children. Except he's also the man who chose to let our daughter die.
"Daphne." Charlotte's voice pulls me back. "Have you tried therapy? Real, professional help before you give up?"
I shake my head slowly. "We've been trying to handle it ourselves."
"How's that working?"
The laugh that escapes me is bitter. "About as well as you'd expect."
Charlotte leans forward.
"Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. If you want a divorce, I'll support you. But divorce is permanent. There's no taking it back once you start that process. Therapy is a chance. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't, but at least you'll know you tried everything before you walked away."
Her words settle over me like weight. She's right, but the thought of sitting in a room with Xander, exposing all the broken pieces of us to a stranger—it terrifies me.
"What if therapy just confirms what I already know?" I ask quietly. "That we can't survive this?"
"Then at least you'll know for sure." Charlotte squeezes my hand again. "But what if it doesn't? What if there's a way through this that you just can't see right now because you're both drowning?"
I think about Xander's face in the nursery. The devastation when I took Hope from his arms. How he'd walked away with resignation, like he'd accepted that this is what we are now—two people who hurt each other without meaning to.
We finish lunch, and Charlotte hugs me goodbye. I drive home slowly, her words circling in my mind. The lawyer's card sits in my wallet like a loaded gun. Therapy sits in my heart like a fragile hope I'm afraid to examine too closely.
That night, after Hope's evening feeding and the twins' bedtime routine, I find myself standing outside Xander's office door. My heart hammers. My hands shake when I raise them to knock.
"Come in," his voice calls, distracted.
He's at his desk, laptop open, papers scattered. He looks up when I enter, and something shifts in his expression—surprise, or cautious hope. We haven't sought each other out voluntarily in days.
"Do you have a minute?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Always." He closes the laptop immediately, gives me his full attention.
I cross to his desk but don't sit. My fingers twist together. "I've been thinking. About us, about how we keep trying to fix things on our own and it's not working."
Xander's jaw tightens. He braces for whatever's coming next. He probably thinks I'm here to ask for space. Or worse.
"I think we should try therapy," I say in a rush. "Couple's therapy. I don't know if it will work, but I think we should try before we…" I can't finish the sentence. Before we give up. Before we destroy what's left.
Xander goes very still. For a long moment he just looks at me, and I watch something flicker across his face. Hope. Raw, desperate, unguarded hope that makes my chest ache.
"Yes," he says immediately. His voice cracks slightly. "Whatever it takes. I'll do whatever it takes, Daphne."
The relief that floods through me is unexpected. I thought suggesting therapy would feel like admitting defeat. Instead, it feels like the first genuine step forward we've taken since the hospital.
Xander opens his laptop again, pulls up his calendar. "When does it work for you? I can clear anything."
I move around the desk to stand beside him. He shifts his chair to make space, and I realize this is the closest we've been voluntarily in weeks. Close enough to smell his cologne, feel the warmth from his body.
We spend twenty minutes researching therapists, reading reviews, comparing specializations. Xander finds one who specializes in trauma and complicated grief, with experience in couples navigating medical crises with children.
Dr. Lola Sutton. Available Thursday afternoons.
"That works with Hope's newborn care," I say, calculating.
Xander makes the appointment while I stand beside him. His hand shakes slightly on the mouse when he clicks to confirm, and I realize he's as nervous as I am. As desperate for this to work.
When he's done, he turns to face me. We're eye level now, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I knew how.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For giving us this chance."
My throat tightens. I think about the lawyer's card in my wallet, about how close I came to taking a different path.
"I'm still angry," I tell him honestly. "I'm still hurt. This doesn't fix anything."
"I know." His eyes hold mine. "But maybe it's a start."
For the first time in weeks, I let myself feel something other than grief and rage. Something fragile and uncertain, but real. We're fighting for the same thing now. Not fighting each other, but fighting together to save what we built.
It's not forgiveness, not healing. But it's a thread of connection where there's been nothing but distance, and I'm going to hold onto it with everything I have.