—Theresa—

I walked up the sidewalk to an adorable little house. In the yard out front, a sign proclaimed OPEN HOUSE. This would be one of over a dozen houses I’d looked at in Willow Creek. Maybe this one would finally feel right for me and Zury.

I stepped inside. The interior was just as nice as the outside. The kitchen was new, the hardwood smooth and shiny beneath my feet. The den could easily be converted into an art studio. And yet…

As I looked around the master bedroom, it struck me just how dramatically everything had changed. One moment, I’d been eking out a living trying to sell artwork, the next, I was gearing up for my own showcase at the gallery. I was hardly an art-world celebrity, but I was oceans away from where I’d been in that sad little San Myshuno apartment not even six months ago.

Sometimes, I felt like things had changed so rapidly that I had whiplash. Just the day before, I’d gotten a call from an art dealer in California asking about the piece the gallery had put on display just days before. It made my head spin.

I made my way back to the living room. As beautiful as this house was, I knew it wasn’t the one. I stepped out of the house—and froze on the spot. Headed up the front walk was Peter.

I gaped at him. “Peter? What are you doing here?”

“Your mother told me where you’d be.” He was just as he’d always been. Polished and perfect, whether he was in a suit or not.

“Why are you here?” Just when everything had been going so well.

He smiled. “You remember my coworker, Mike, don’t you? His wife is an avid art collector. Imagine my surprise when Mike tells me she’s just bought one of your paintings.”

“One of mine…? How…?”

“I didn’t bother asking how she found out about you,” he said impatiently. “I assume she looks for new talent. Not that your talent is new. I always knew you could be great.” He sounded proud. As if he was somehow responsible for my newfound success.

Irritation started to build. How dare he come here after what he’d done to me? How could he act like this was okay? “Why are you here, Peter?” I repeated.

“I realized how wrong I was to let you go.” Let me go? As if I left despite him? “We were great together—just think of how much better we could be now.”

“You mean now that I’m getting some recognition. By the way, have you forgotten Zury? You know, the daughter you refused to pay child support for?”

He had the decency to look guilty. “I apologize for that. It was petty of me. I was wrong, Theresa.”

“Go to hell. The only reason you want me back is because you think it’ll make you look better to have an artist for a girlfriend. You don’t care about me or Zury. I don’t need you anymore, so fuck right the hell off.”

I ignored his attempts to talk to me. When he tried to grab my arm, I threatened to call the police, and he dropped his hand like he’d been burned. I stalked to my car and drove away.

The nerve he had to come here. God, how stupid I’d been all those years to let him manipulate me. It was so easy to see through him now. He didn’t give a shit about me; all he cared about was his image. Now that he thought I might become a famous artist, he wanted me back. Yeah, well, the joke was on him; I had no need or desire for him to come back into my life.

My anger had mostly cooled by the time I’d gotten home. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked up at the little pink house, and knew.

I let myself inside; I was met by the smell of roasting chicken and the sound of cartoons. In the living room, I found Mom and Dad sitting and reading while Zury stared up at the TV from the floor.

I picked my daughter up and gave her a kiss and a tickle, making her squeal with laughter. I smiled and hugged her. “Mom, Dad, if it’s okay with you guys, I think I’ll stop looking for a house.”

They lowered their books and shared a look with brows arched. “If it’s alright with us?” Dad asked.

A slight, knowing smile came to Mom’s face. “I thought you wanted your own place.”

I gave my daughter another squeeze. “I don’t need one. I’m already home.”