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“I do!”
The words had come out naturally back then, full of hope and excitement. But looking back now, no matter how much I had molded myself to be everything Michael could ever want, I could never hold a candle to the fiery, untamed love he shared with his first love. No amount of effort could compete with that.
Sabrina arrived at our home after I adopted Noah. At first, I had no clue who she really was to him. I saw her as Noah’s music tutor–a woman with a flamboyant, almost over–the- top personality, one I thought Michael would never be drawn to.
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But, God, how wrong I was.
I had underestimated his feelings for her. Michael’s love had no rhyme or reason, no logic. It didn’t matter who she was or how different she seemed from what I thought he’d want–he loved her.
Completely.
I learned the truth from a diary she carelessly left in Noah’s room. It was filled with their
memories, their stories from Paris–their wild, untamed romance. There was a vivid entry about how Michael, a man known for his impeccable work ethic, had skipped an important board meeting just to spend an all- nighter clubbing with her in the city’s heart.
And then there was me. My time abroad as a
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student seemed plain and dull compared to
their blazing, cinematic love story. It was
dazzling in a way that burned. It felt like my heart was being scalded whenever I thought about it.
I cried quietly in the dark for nights, hating how much I felt like a placeholder. A shadow standing in the spot where she truly belonged.
Back in the kitchen, the scent of sizzling steak filled the room, the loud hum of the range hood masking the sounds of muffled sobs.
Tears were streaming down Sabrina’s face as she clung to Michael, her hands gripping his shirt as though letting go would shatter her completely.
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His posture softened. He took Sabrina’s hands in his, his expression unbearably tender, the longing in his eyes as plain as day.
“Mom, you’re back!” Noah’s voice cut through the moment, startling them both.
Sabrina quickly let go of him, stepping back and hastily wiping her tears.
Michael turned to the stove, focusing intently on the steak as though it were the most important task in the world. “Eliza, please don’t misunderstand. I was just…”
“It’s fine,” I cut her off, my voice even.
She froze, her lips parting, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes.
I smiled gently, keeping my tone calm. “I’m
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sorry for not announcing myself sooner. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She blinked, her composure cracking for just
a moment.
“N–no, it’s okay,” she stammered.
But Michael didn’t turn around. I could feel the tension radiating off him, even with his back to me. He was upset, not because of her, but because I had interrupted them.
It stung.
But I told myself: ‘Hold on. Just a little longer. It’s the last day. Soon, Michael, you’ll be free.’
I turned to Noah, my little boy who had been the one bright spot in this otherwise dark, suffocating world. I bent down, arms open,
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wanting to scoop him up and hold him close.
But he stepped back.
He looked up at me, his face serious. “Aunt Sabby says I’m a big boy now. Big boys don’t need hugs anymore.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. I swallowed the lump in my throat, refusing to let it show, and instead smiled softly.
“Look what I got for you,” I said, placing a brand–new African drum in front of him. “It’s
the one you’ve been asking for.”
He glanced at it briefly, then returned to the sheet music in his hands. “I already told you— I’m a big boy now. That’s just a primitive instrument. It’s outdated. I’m practicing Mozart, Mom. Aunt Sabby says if I keep
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working hard, I can become a world–famous
musician like her.”
The ache in my chest deepened.
“Don’t you want to take a break from practicing?” I asked gently, my voice almost pleading. “Spend a little time with Mom?”
Noah didn’t even glance at me. His attention stayed fixed on the piano. “No. Aunt Sabby says if I don’t practice every day, I won’t make it into Juilliard. Persistence is everything.”
I felt the sting of his words. “You’re only six, sweetheart. Do you really need to worry about Juilliard already?”
His tone turned sharp, frustrated. “Classical music has to be nurtured from a young age. I’m almost seven! If I don’t practice, I’ll fall
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behind all the other geniuses. You just don’t
understand, Mom.”
My breath caught.
How could he say that? How could he think I didn’t understand?
Hadn’t I spent my entire life pushing myself in the same relentless way? Studying until my eyes blurred and my hands trembled from exhaustion. Hadn’t I sacrificed everything for perfection, for the chance to become someone worthy?
