"Lily!" I call from our tiny kitchen, stirring the steaming casserole one last time before turning off the stove.
"Yeeees?" Her voice floats from our shared bedroom, drawn out and distracted. I don't even need to look to know she's still sprawled on the bed, crayons scattered around her, completely absorbed in her latest masterpiece.
I shake my head, setting the dish on our small, round table before wiping my hands on my apron. Tossing it aside, I walk to the bedroom and lean against the doorframe, watching her.
Lily is lying on her stomach, legs kicking lazily in the air as she scribbles with intense focus. The tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips—her serious artist face.
I smile and sneak up behind her, wrapping my arms around her in a sudden hug. "What's taking my little Picasso so long?"
She squeals, giggling as she squirms in my arms. "Mommy! I'm almost done!"
I rest my chin on her shoulder, watching as she carefully fills in the last section of her drawing—a bright blue sky above a lopsided house. With a flourish, she holds it up triumphantly. "Ta-da!"
"Wow," I breathe, taking it from her. "Is this our dream house?"
She nods eagerly. "With a big garden for a puppy! And a swing!"
"It's perfect," I say, kissing the top of her head. "Fridge-worthy, definitely."
She scrambles off the bed, bare feet slapping against the floor as she races to the kitchen. I follow, watching as she proudly sticks her drawing on the fridge with a flower magnet.
"Okay, artiste," I say, steering her toward the table. "Dinner time."
She climbs into her chair, swinging her legs as she eyes the casserole. "Mommy," she says suddenly, tilting her head. "Why do grown-ups drink coffee if it's yucky?"
I snort, spooning food onto her plate. "Because without it, we turn into grumpy zombies who trip over our own feet."
She gasps, eyes wide. "Like in Night of the Niving Dead?!"
"Lily Marie Cole," I say, pointing my fork at her. "Who let you watch zombie movies?"
She grins, shoveling a bite into her mouth. "Granny."
I sigh, taking a mental note to lecture my Mom about it later.
Dinner passes in comfortable chaos—Lily chattering about her day, me nodding along as I sneak extra vegetables onto her plate. She eats well, thank God. Unlike some of her picky kids at the daycare, Lily has always had a hearty appetite—my genes, I think smugly.
Once we're done, I usher her through the bedtime routine: bath, pajamas, two stories ("One more, Mama, pleeeease?"), and finally, lights out.
"Love you to the moon," I whisper, tucking the blankets around her.
"An back a milli time," she mumbles, already half-asleep.
I linger for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, before quietly slipping out.
In the living room, I collapse onto the couch, exhaling as I reach for the stack of forms from Bright Horizons Kindergarten. Lily and I visited yesterday, and thankfully, Damien hadn't summoned me for any weekend emergencies. The school is perfect—small classes, a nurturing environment, close to our apartment.
I'm halfway through filling out the emergency contact section when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I glance at it absently—then freeze.
An unknown number.
The same one that texted me two weeks ago.
My stomach twists as I pick it up.
Hi, Jen.
I stare at the screen, my fingers suddenly cold. Last time, I'd ignored it, assuming a wrong number. But now...
I type back, Who is this?
Three dots appear. Then—
It's Ryan.
The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
Another buzz. It's been a while.
My breath comes too fast. The walls feel like they're closing in.
Ryan Callahan.
Lily's father.
The man who signed away his rights six years ago. The man who told me he wanted nothing to do with us. The man who only ever brought chaos.
Why now?
What does he want?
My hands shake as I pick up the phone, dread pooling in my gut.
And then—another message.
I missed you.
The words glare up at me from the screen, mocking in their casual cruelty. My stomach churns, acid burning the back of my throat. He missed me? After six years of silence? After abandoning me when I told him I was pregnant? After looking me dead in the eye and saying, "Get rid of it, Jen. I'm not sticking around for this."
My fingers tremble violently as I type back, What do you want?
The three dots appear immediately—like he's been hovering over his phone, waiting. But instead of a reply, my screen flashes with an incoming call.
He is calling me.
His name alone sends my pulse into a frenzy, my heartbeat so loud it drowns out everything else. Should I answer? No. Hell no. I owe him nothing. Not my time, not my voice, certainly not an explanation.
The ringing stops. A second later, another text:
Jen, please pick up the call.
I swipe the notification away, not even bothering to leave it on read, and power off my phone with a decisive click.
Silence settles over the apartment, thick and suffocating. I sit frozen on the couch, my skin prickling with unease. A cold droplet of sweat trails down my temple.
Why now?
The question claws at me. Ryan hasn't been part of my life since the day he walked out. He doesn't know about Lily. He can't.
A sudden, visceral fear grips me. What if he finds out?
I bolt from the couch, my bare feet silent against the floor as I rush to our room. The door creaks softly as I push it open, and there she is—curled under her blanket, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, one tiny hand clutching her stuffed bunny.
Safe. Unaware.
I exhale shakily, but the relief is fleeting. The dread lingers, coiling around my ribs like a vice.
I tiptoe back to the living room, careful not to wake Lily, and sink onto the couch with my head in my hands. The kindergarten forms lie forgotten on the coffee table, the cheerful Bright Horizons logo suddenly mocking in its optimism.
My phone sits dark and silent where I'd thrown it, but I can still see those words burned into my vision: I missed you.
A bitter laugh escapes me. Missed me? Ryan Callahan didn't miss people—he used them. He'd used me five years ago when he'd charmed his way into my life, then vanished the moment things got real. I could still remember the exact way his face had twisted in disgust when I'd told him I was keeping the baby. "You're ruining your life, Jen. And mine."
He doesn't get to know her.
Ryan forfeited any claim to Lily the moment he told me to "take care of it." He signed away his rights without a second thought. He doesn't get to waltz back in now, acting like he has any right to miss me, to call me, to—
No.
I force myself to breathe. He doesn't know. He can't know. The mantra plays on loop in my mind, but the words feel flimsy, insubstantial against the tidal wave of what-ifs crashing through my thoughts.
I press my palm flat against the cool wall, grounding myself in its solidity, but my fingers still tremble.
Ryan's sudden reappearance after five years of radio silence feels like a cruel joke. Five years of struggling through midnight feedings and daycare waiting lists and the endless judgmental stares from strangers who saw a too-young single mother. Five years of building this fragile but beautiful life for Lily and me—just the two of us against the world. And now, with three simple words—"I missed you"—he threatens to unravel everything.
The rational part of my brain knows he probably just wants something. Ryan was always transactional in his affections, his charm as calculated as it was effortless. But the mother in me sees the nuclear option looming over us.
What if someone mentions Lily? What if he runs into us at the grocery store? What if he decides to play happy families now that the hard work of raising a newborn is done?
It's fine, he won't do anything.
But the fear whispers anyway: What if he does?
Ryan was always charming when he wanted something. And if he ever discovered Lily existed—if he realized he had a daughter—what would stop him from tearing our lives apart?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
The scream building in my chest turns to acid in my throat. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, biting down on the fleshy part between my thumb and forefinger until the pain grounds me. The coppery taste of blood blooms on my tongue.
It's fine, I lie to myself. He won't do anything.
But the truth is, I don't know that.
And that's what terrifies me most.