Two years later.
The park is noisy with the sound of children. I sit on a bench, watching Leo chase a soccer ball. He’s fast, stumbling on sturdy toddler legs.
“He’s getting better at dribbling,” a voice says beside me.
David sits down, handing me a coffee. He looks good. He smiles more now.
“He gets it from his coach,” I say, nudging him.
A few feet away, David’s son, Sam, is building a sandcastle. He’s a few months younger than Leo, but they are inseparable. They don’t know the story yet. They just know they are family.
Jessica moved away. She sends David updates on Sam, but she keeps her distance. The shame was too much for her to stay in Seattle.
Michael is around. He sees Leo every other weekend. It’s stiff. Formal. Leo calls him “Dad,” but he calls David “Coach Dave,” and his eyes light up brighter for the latter. Michael knows it. It’s his punishment.
David and I… we aren’t together. Not like that. Not yet.
We are partners. We are co-parents of a disaster we turned into a miracle. We have Sunday dinners. We spend holidays together. We are the village it takes to raise these boys.
But lately, there have been moments. A lingering look over a glass of wine. A hand on the small of my back that stays a second too long.
We are healing. Slowly.
Leo runs over to us, breathless. “Coach! Look!”
He kicks the ball. It goes wide, but David cheers like it was a World Cup goal.
I watch them. The man who was destroyed by the same explosion that hit me. We were left in the rubble, and instead of dying there, we built a castle.
My phone buzzes. A text from Michael. Running late for pick up. Traffic.
I don’t feel anger anymore. I don’t feel anything for him. He is just a logistic.
I look at David. He catches my eye and smiles—a real, warm smile that reaches his eyes.
“Ready for pizza tonight?” he asks.
“Always,” I say.
I take a sip of coffee and watch our boys play. The yellow onesie is long gone, packed away in a box of memories. But the sunlight? It’s here. It’s all around us.
I didn’t just survive the crash. I drove out of the wreckage and found a better road.
And this time, I’m not alone.
