Chapter 183: I DESERVED HAPPINESS

Abby’s POV

The house felt too quiet after Marcus left.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the kind that rang in your ears and forced your thoughts to get louder.

I sat on the edge of the couch long after the door had closed behind him, my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring at the space he’d occupied only minutes ago.

Dylan shifted in his room, a soft cough drifting down the hallway.

I stood immediately.

Motherhood did that to you. One sound—one breath that didn’t sound quite right—and your entire body responded before your mind could catch up.

I padded down the hallway, my steps light, and pushed his door open just enough to peer inside.

His fever had gone down. I could see it in the way his little chest rose and fell evenly, in the faint flush that had faded from his cheeks.

I reached out and pressed my palm gently to his forehead.

Cooler.

Relief washed through me so fast it almost made me dizzy.

“Okay,” I whispered, brushing his curls back. “You’re okay, my brave boy.”

I stood there longer than necessary, just watching him sleep.

Protecting him had become my life’s rhythm, every thought, every choice measured by how it would affect him.

I would do anything for my son. Anything. Even if it meant locking pieces of myself away where they couldn’t get hurt.

I returned to the living room slowly and sank back onto the couch, curling my legs beneath me. That was when the thoughts crept in.

Marcus.

The way he’d stayed without hesitation. The way he’d offered to help, to be there, without making it feel transactional or heavy.

The way he’d looked at Dylan—not with discomfort or pity, but with quiet respect.

That scared me more than I wanted to admit.

I’d loved before. Deeply. Recklessly.

My husband—God, it still felt strange to call him that without the ache immediately following—had been my everything.

High school sweethearts. Prom dates. College applications filled out side by side.

We’d built a life on shared jokes, shared dreams, shared plans that felt unbreakable because we were so young when we made them.

And then he left.

Not dramatically. Not in a screaming match or an explosive confession.

He just… faded. One day he was there, and the next, he wasn’t coming home anymore.

He said he needed space. Said he felt trapped. Said he loved Dylan but didn’t love this life.

I’d begged. I wasn’t proud of it, but I had. I asked what I could change, what I could fix, who I needed to be for him to stay.

He shook his head.

And that was that.

Explaining it to Dylan had nearly broken me.

Daddy isn’t coming back.

I remembered kneeling in front of my son, my heart cracking with every word, trying to make something incomprehensible sound gentle.

Trying to reassure him when I wasn’t reassured myself.

Dylan had cried himself to sleep that night, clutching his favorite toy, asking questions I didn’t have answers to.

After that, I learned how to survive.

I built walls. Thick ones. Practical ones. I told myself love was a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore.

That happiness was optional, but safety was not. That stability mattered more than romance, more than longing, more than the soft ache in my chest that never fully went away.

And then Marcus walked into my life.

My boss.

Of all people.

That alone should have been reason enough to shut everything down. Workplace complications.

Power dynamics. Office gossip. Single mother stereotypes. The risk of it all made my stomach twist.

And yet.

I stared at the spot where he’d sat earlier, remembering the way his voice had softened when he talked about staying. The way he hadn’t once made me feel like I was too much.

Too complicated. Too broken.

I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold.

Was I leading him on?

.

I hadn’t said yes. I hadn’t said no. I’d kissed him—but kisses could mean different things, couldn’t they? Or was that just something people told themselves when they were scared?

Marcus deserved clarity. He deserved honesty.

And I was terrified I didn’t have either to give.

What if I let him in and he left too?

What if Dylan got attached?

That was the fear that kept me up at night.

Not my own heartbreak—I could survive that. I had before. But my son? Watching him go through loss again because I’d been selfish enough to want happiness?

I pressed my fingers to my lips, breathing slowly.

But another thought followed, quieter yet persistent.

Didn’t I deserve happiness too?

The idea felt almost foreign. Like trying on a dress that didn’t quite feel like it belonged to me anymore.

I’d spent so long putting myself last that the concept of choosing joy felt indulgent—dangerous, even.

Marcus made me laugh.

He made me feel seen—not as a problem to solve or a woman with baggage, but as Abby. Just Abby. Someone worth knowing. Someone worth choosing.

And he hadn’t run when he learned about Dylan.

He’d leaned in.

I exhaled shakily and leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe I didn’t have to decide everything tonight.

Maybe protecting my son didn’t mean denying myself every good thing forever. Maybe it meant choosing carefully—but not refusing to choose at all.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. I didn’t know how to balance fear and hope, responsibility and desire, past pain and future possibility.

But for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to consider something radical.

That I might still be allowed to want more.

And that maybe—just maybe—Marcus wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen.

Maybe he was a chance.

And I needed time to figure out if I was brave enough to take it.