Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Hero

Emily said Daddy.
Not to make a point.
Not to hurt herself.
Not as evidence.
Just because Eleanora had grabbed my split lip with one sticky, merciless hand, and Emily had reacted like a mother correcting a tiny criminal.
"No assaulting Daddy."
The word landed in me and stayed.
Daddy.
Not Hero.
Not your father in the sterile court-paper way.
Not him.
Daddy.
Eleanora tried to steal the chocolate packet from behind my back with the focus of a jewel thief.
Emily laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound moved through the safe house and gave it another memory.
A good one.
Small.
Ridiculous.
Ours.
I should have said something normal.
Something light.
Instead, because I was me, because my face apparently did paragraphs and my heart had no respect for timing, I stared at Emily like she had handed me an organ.
Her smile faded.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're looking."
"I have eyes."
"You have loud eyes."
"That feels discriminatory."
"Against idiots, yes."
Eleanora made an offended little noise and lunged again for the chocolate.
Emily caught her wrist gently.
"No. Not for tiny chaos demons."
"She's persistent."
"She gets that from Brandon."
The name entered the room without breaking it.
That was new.
Emily seemed to notice too.
Her face flickered, but she did not flinch.
She looked down at Eleanora instead.
"Your Uncle Brandon would have absolutely given you chocolate buttons and then denied it while you vibrated through the ceiling."
My throat tightened.
Eleanora blinked at her.
No idea.
No grief.
Just baby.
Emily's thumb brushed over the back of her daughter's hand.
"And Uncle Titan would have covered for him badly."
I smiled.
"Titan would have blamed me."
"Everyone blames you."
"Correctly, often."
Emily looked up at me.
There was still wetness under her eyes. Still exhaustion. Still the aftershock of Ava, the folder, the birth certificate, the folder that would never be called Boo in any legal document if Jen had anything to do with it.
But there was also this.
Her holding Eleanora in clean clothes with wet hair, chocolate on her thumb, making a dead man safe enough to mention in front of our daughter.
I wanted to kiss her.
The thought hit so hard I nearly stepped back.
Not because I hadn't wanted her before.
Wanting Emily was one of the most consistent disasters of my life.
But this was not the old want.
Not the hotel room want.
Not the angry want.
Not the grief-drunk, come-back-to-me want.
This one was worse.
I wanted to kiss the woman who had just said Daddy without noticing.
The woman who had sung our daughter quiet.
The woman who had admitted the worst of herself and still picked Eleanora up when she reached.
I wanted to kiss her like a promise.
Which meant I absolutely could not.
Emily saw something change in my face.
Of course she did.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Her eyes narrowed.
"That was a very full nothing."
"I'm injured."
"That excuse is exhausted."
"So am I."
That softened her.
Damn it.
"Sit down," she said.
"I am sitting."
"You're emotionally standing."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Fair.
The phone rang before either of us could make the room more dangerous.
Mine this time.
Anna.
I answered on speaker because secrets had become unsafe.
"Please be boring."
Anna did not laugh.
"Jo's manager has lawyered up."
Emily's hand tightened around Eleanora.
"Already?"
"Yes. Which tells us something."
"Nothing good," I said.
"No. But something useful." Paper rustled on Anna's end. "Studio legal is now in crisis mode. They're trying to distance themselves from Jo's manager and any unauthorised archive access. They are also quietly asking whether Hero will agree to pause all promotion for safeguarding reasons."
I laughed once.
It hurt my lip.
"They're asking now?"
"Now that police have Jo's manager connected to archive access, yes."
Emily's face went cold.
"Tell them no."
Anna paused.
Hero's brain took one full second to catch up.
"What?"
Emily looked at me.
Not asking permission.
But including me in the blast radius.
"Tell them no," she repeated. "Not pause. Terminate. End the fake romance. End the Jo narrative. End any promotion built around his private life. End it in writing."
Anna was silent for half a beat.
Then, "That is exactly what Jen wants, but she wanted me to ease you into it."
Emily looked at my phone.
"Tell Jen I am not in an easing mood."
"I will quote that."
"Do."
I stared at Emily.
She shifted Eleanora to her other hip.
Our daughter used the opportunity to slap her palm against Emily's collarbone.
Emily winced.
"Thank you, tiny menace."
Anna continued, "The studio will push back."
"Let them."
"They'll say contractual obligations."
"Then Jen can say police investigation, child safeguarding, witness interference, unlawful archive access, and whatever other terrifying phrases she keeps in her handbag."
Anna's voice warmed by half a degree.
"She'll enjoy that."
"I know."
I looked at Emily.
"Em."
Her eyes came to mine.
"You don't have to fight my contract."
Her face changed.
Not anger.
Hurt, maybe.
Then steel.
"I'm not fighting your contract."
"No?"
"No. I'm fighting the part of your life that keeps reaching into my daughter's."
My daughter.
Our daughter.
Both lived in the room now.
Neither cancelled the other out.
I swallowed.
"Okay."
Anna said, "Hero, I need your consent to push for promotional withdrawal on those grounds."
I looked at Eleanora.
At Emily.
At the safe house walls with their new memories.
"Do it."
Anna exhaled.
"Good."
"And Anna?"
"Yes?"
"No call with Jo."
"Already dead."
"No photos with her."
"Dead."
"No 'supportive colleagues' statement."
"Very dead."
"No statement that makes Emily sound unstable or blames her for the disruption."
Emily looked down.
My voice hardened.
"If they try that, I'll make my own statement."
Anna went quiet.
Then, carefully, "You won't without Jen."
"No. I won't. But I will not let them make Emily the cost of cleaning up their PR."
Emily's face lifted.
Her eyes met mine.
Not soft.
Not crying.
Something steadier.
Good.
Anna said, "Understood."
The call ended after she promised to update Jen and after Emily threatened, very quietly, to send Anna a voice note of Eleanora screaming if she let anyone use the word "misunderstanding" in reference to Jo.
Anna said, "Fair," and hung up.
Eleanora yawned.
Huge.
Dramatic.
Full-bodied.
Emily looked at her.
"You cannot be tired. You slept through most of the apocalypse."
"She's processing."
"She's one."
"Processing with vibes."
Emily stared at me.
"You shouldn't be allowed near language."
"I'm loved for more than words."
"By whom?"
I gave her a look.
She went still.
Too much.
Too soon.
I had not meant it like that.
Or I had.
God.
"Sorry," I said immediately.
Emily looked away.
"Don't."
"I didn't mean-"
"I said don't." Her voice was low. "Don't apologise for every time we accidentally brush against the truth."
My chest tightened.
Brush against the truth.
That was what we had been doing all day.
All week.
All year.
Touching old wounds and flinching like they were electrical.
I nodded.
"Okay."
She glanced at me.
"Better."
Then Eleanora rubbed her eyes with both fists, rabbit caught against her cheek.
Emily saw.
"She needs sleep."
"Yes."
"Proper sleep."
"Probably."
"In the cot."
"Yes."
"I can do it."
I sat back before my body betrayed me by standing.
"I know."
Emily watched me.
Waiting for the hover.
The correction.
The instinct.
I kept my mouth shut.
She carried Eleanora to the travel cot and lowered her in.
Our daughter protested immediately.
Of course.
The second her back touched the mattress, she arched as if Emily had placed her on betrayal itself.
"No," Emily whispered. "Don't do that."
Eleanora's face crumpled.
Emily froze.
I gripped my own knee.
Do not move.
Do not move.
Do not steal it.
Emily looked at me once.
Panic in her eyes.
Then back at our daughter.
She picked Eleanora up again.
Not failure.
Adjustment.
Our daughter quieted the second she was back in Emily's arms.
Emily let out a shaky laugh.
"Oh, you little fraud."
I smiled.
"She does that."
"She's manipulating me."
"Expertly."
"She gets that from you."
"Again, often true."
Emily rocked her once.
Then twice.
Eleanora settled her head on Emily's shoulder.
Emily looked at the cot like it had personally challenged her.
"I'm going to try again."
"Okay."
"Do not narrate."
"I won't."
"Your face is narrating."
I turned my head away.
"Better?"
"No, now you look like you're in pain."
"I am in pain."
"That's not my fault."
"Some of it might be."
She almost smiled.
Then she lowered Eleanora again.
Slower this time.
One hand under her back.
One hand supporting her head.
She paused with Eleanora still half in her arms, letting her body adjust to the mattress before fully letting go.
Smart.
Instinctive, maybe.
Learned, maybe.
It didn't matter.
Eleanora grumbled.
Emily kept one hand on her chest.
"Shh."
Our daughter's eyes stayed closed.
Emily waited.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Then slowly, she lifted her hand.
Eleanora stayed asleep.
Emily remained bent over the cot for a long time.
Too long for comfort.
Not too long for her.
I watched the back of her neck.
The wet ends of her hair.
The tension in her shoulders.
The care in the way she stood still even though her body must have ached.
She straightened eventually.
Turned.
Her face was fragile with triumph.
"I did it."
My voice came out rough.
"You did."
"She cried first."
"Babies do that."
"I picked her back up."
"Yes."
"Then put her down again."
"Yes."
"And she stayed."
"Yes."
Emily breathed in.
"Okay."
A tiny word.
A whole chapter of her life.
She came back to the sofa and sat beside me, leaving a sensible space between us that felt less like fear and more like respect.
For about four seconds.
Then she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Not asleep.
Not even close.
Just depleted.
I watched Eleanora.
She slept.
I watched the door.
Locked.
I watched Emily.
Still here.
Three points of a triangle I could hold in my mind without losing one.
My phone buzzed again.
I silenced it immediately.
Emily opened one eye.
"Who?"
"Mum."
"Answer."
"You need quiet."
"She needs reassurance."
"So do you."
"I need many things. Mostly for people to stop requiring decisions."
I answered.
"Mum?"
"Just checking," she said quickly. "Not intruding. We spoke to Titan."
"Oh God."
Emily opened both eyes.
"What did he do?"
I put Mum on speaker.
Mum sighed. "He is not driving."
"Good," Emily said.
"He is, however, sitting in his kitchen with a packed overnight bag by the door and what he calls an emergency sandwich."
I closed my eyes.
Emily's mouth twitched.
"Of course he is."
Dad's voice came in the background. "It's not a good sandwich."
Mum said, "Your father is offended by the sandwich quality."
"Dad has strong sandwich standards," I said.
"As do all civilised people," Dad called.
Emily laughed quietly.
Mum heard.
Her voice softened.
"How is Nora?"
"Asleep," Emily said.
No hesitation.
"She fought it," I added.
Emily shot me a look.
"I won."
Mum laughed.
"Good girl."
Emily went still.
The words.
Good girl.
Mum must have realised, because she inhaled quickly.
"I mean-"
"No," Emily said.
Her voice was thin.
"Don't take it back."
A pause.
Then Mum said softly, "Good girl."
Emily looked down at her hands.
I wanted to put mine over them.
I didn't.
Dad cleared his throat loudly in the background, which meant he was either emotional or pretending he wasn't.
Mum continued, "Titan wants to know if he can video call later. Not now. Later. He says he wants to see the baby is breathing, which is a disturbing way to phrase love."
Emily looked at the cot.
Then at me.
Her face tightened.
Video.
Screens.
Cameras.
Seeing.
Being seen.
I took the phone off speaker for a second.
"Mum, not tonight."
Emily reached for my wrist.
I stopped.
She shook her head.
Not no.
Not yes either.
She took a breath.
"Later," she said. "Maybe. No screenshots. No recording. No one else in the room."
I looked at her.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"Em."
"He loved Brandon."
My throat closed.
She swallowed.
"And Brandon made him promise."
Mum had gone silent on the phone.
She knew enough.
Maybe not everything.
Probably more than Titan thought.
Mothers always did.
Emily looked at me.
"It can be later. When she wakes. If I'm still okay with it then."
I repeated into the phone.
"Mum, tell him maybe later. If Emily agrees then. No pressure."
Mum's voice softened.
"I'll tell him."
"Not as a promise," Emily said.
"Not as a promise," Mum repeated.
That mattered.
The call ended.
Emily sank back against the sofa.
"You okay?"
"No."
I nodded.
"Okay."
"Stop using my word."
"It's communal now."
"Annoying."
"Very."
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The safe house hummed quietly around us.
Fridge.
Rain.
Distant tyres on wet road.
Eleanora breathing.
Emily's eyes stayed on the cot.
Mine stayed on Emily.
Eventually, she said, "I don't know how to be around your family."
I had expected many possible sentences.
Not that one.
I turned slightly.
"You don't have to know tonight."
"I know, but I'm thinking it."
"Dangerous."
"Very."
She folded her legs beneath her, careful around the scar.
"They know her. All of them. Your mum. Your dad. Titan. They know her routines and sounds and expressions. They know stories I don't."
My chest tightened.
"Yes."
"I hate that."
"I know."
"I'm grateful for it."
"I know."
"Both."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
"And if we try to make this..." She stopped.
I waited.
Her face flushed faintly.
Not pretty blush.
Fear.
"If we try to make this something, I'm not just walking back into your life. I'm walking into a family that had to survive me leaving."
I swallowed.
"Yes."
"They might be kind and still angry."
"Yes."
"They might love Eleanora and not trust me."
"Yes."
"You might."
My throat tightened.
"I already do."
She absorbed that.
Not as insult.
As truth.
"I don't know if I can bear being watched by them."
"There's that word again."
Her face tightened.
"Yes."
"I know."
"I don't mean cameras."
"I know."
"I mean the Nana look. The did-she-change-the-nappy-right look. The does-Nora-want-Hero-instead look. The careful kindness. The careful anger. The waiting."
I looked at my hands.
My family would try.
They would.
Mum would swallow advice until it poisoned her.
Dad would be too gentle and somehow that would hurt.
Titan would say the wrong thing within thirty seconds and then defend himself by being right.
They loved Eleanora.
They loved me.
They had loved Emily once, and grief had made a mess of the remains.
"They'll need boundaries," I said.
Emily looked at me.
"From you."
"Yes."
"And me."
"Yes."
"And if they hate that?"
"Then they'll have to do it anyway."
Her eyes searched my face.
"You'd choose that?"
I knew what she meant.
Not them or her.
Not simple.
Not fair.
Would I stand between my family and Emily if the watching became too much?
Would I ask the people who helped raise my daughter to step back so her mother could step forward?
Would I risk hurting them for the chance of Eleanora having both parents in the room?
"Yes," I said.
Emily's eyes filled.
"You don't have to answer so fast."
"I do when I know."
She looked away.
"That's dangerous too."
"I know."
"I'm not promising you anything."
"I know."
"I can't be with you just because today is terrifying."
"I know."
"I still don't know what love means when it's mixed with this much guilt."
My chest hurt.
Not ribs.
"I know."
She looked back.
"But I know I don't want everyone else writing the answer."
That one stopped my breath.
No Jo.
No Ava.
No studio.
No press.
No court.
No family.
No grief.
Just us.
Maybe.
Eventually.
Not tonight.
But maybe.
"I don't either," I said.
Eleanora stirred in the cot.
Both of us looked over.
She settled.
Emily breathed out.
"She's exhausted."
"So are you."
"So are you."
"Yes."
"We can't both sleep."
"No."
"We take shifts."
I nodded.
"I'll take first."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You are injured."
"You showered. You sang. You fed her. You gave statements. You emotionally dismantled Ava through an intercom."
"Don't make it sound heroic."
"It was a little heroic."
"It was messy."
"Most heroic things are."
She looked like she wanted to argue.
Then didn't.
Progress.
"One hour," she said.
"Two."
"One."
"You need sleep."
"So do you."
"I can nap later."
"You're lying."
"Yes."
She glared.
I softened.
"One hour," I said.
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
"Wake me if she cries."
"Yes."
"Not if she just moves."
"Okay."
"Not if she makes tiny noises."
"Okay."
"Not if you panic."
I hesitated.
Her eyes sharpened.
"Hero."
"I'll try."
"No. You wake me if she needs me, not if fear needs me."
The words hit hard.
Fair.
Brutal.
Necessary.
I nodded.
"If she needs you."
Emily stood.
Then stopped.
She looked towards the bedroom door.
Her face changed.
Not fear of the bedroom.
Fear of distance.
"I'll leave the door open."
"Okay."
"And you sing if I ask."
"From the living room?"
"Yes."
"I thought my singing was bad."
"It is. That's why I'll know it's real."
A laugh escaped me.
She walked to the bedroom.
At the doorway, she turned back.
"Hero?"
"Yeah?"
"If your mum calls, don't let her talk me into anything while I'm asleep."
I smiled.
"I'll defend your unconscious boundaries."
"Good."
She disappeared into the bedroom.
Door open.
Light off.
Not closed.
I sat alone in the living room with Eleanora asleep in the travel cot and Emily breathing in the next room.
Alone, but not.
The safe house felt different now.
Not ours.
Not home.
But held.
I checked the lock once.
Only once.
Then sat back down.
My phone lit up with a message from Titan.
Mum says maybe later. I understand no pressure. I hate understanding things.
I smiled.
Typed back.
Stay there. Eat your bad sandwich.
His reply came fast.
It's not bad. Dad is elitist.
Then:
Is Emily okay?
I looked towards the open bedroom door.
No.
Yes.
Both.
I typed:
Sleeping. Door open. She put Nora down herself. Sang her quiet.
The typing dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then Titan replied:
Brandon would be unbearable about that.
My throat tightened.
I typed:
Yeah.
Titan:
Tell her I'm proud without saying proud because she'll bite.
I almost laughed.
Then looked at the bedroom again.
At the woman sleeping, maybe.
At the daughter breathing.
At the family nearly two hours away, trying to love from a distance.
I typed:
I'll tell her badly.
Titan replied:
Obviously.
I put the phone down.
Eleanora sighed in the cot.
I leaned forward, watching her.
Not because fear needed me.
Because love did.
There was a difference.
I was learning that too.
After twenty minutes, Emily's voice came from the bedroom.
Sleepy.
Rough.
Not panicked.
"Hero?"
I sat up.
"Yes?"
A pause.
Then, quieter, "Sing."
My throat closed.
I looked at Eleanora, still asleep.
Then towards the open bedroom door.
"You are my sunshine," I sang softly.
Badly.
Honestly.
In the room with my sleeping daughter and the woman I loved trying to rest beyond an open door.
I sang because Emily had asked.
I sang because Brandon couldn't.
I sang because Boo was not in a folder.
She was here.
And because maybe, if we kept telling the truth carefully enough, the house with no memories might learn us without inheriting every wound.