Chapter 15 Wife, Mother, Not Jealous
The heavy curtains in the living room were half-closed, letting in just enough gray light from outside to feel like an uninvited guest. Snow had started falling again, slow and soft, like white cotton drifting down in secret, one piece at a time, until the world looked like an old film playing in slow motion. Unfortunately, it had the same effect on my eyelids.
I stretched out on the long couch, head sinking into a pillow that was way too soft, a thick blanket pulled up to my chin. Zoey was sprawled beside me like a tiny star that had burned through all its fuel, her little body half-draped over mine. Her pink bottle was still in her mouth, the sucking sounds lazy and rhythmic, like a tired metronome.
Zade sat at the other end, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around Zoey's shoulders in a way that silently said: this is a safe zone, no monsters here—except the pillow kind.
An animated movie played on the TV. I’d lost count of how many times we’d watched it. Maybe the fifth? Seventh? Who knew. This time, it was about a karate-princess mermaid saving whales from the underwater mafia. The plot was unhinged. But Zoey loved it the same way she loved hiding sand in my purse.
“Mommy,” she mumbled around the bottle, “if I had a mermaid tail, could I swim to school?”
“If you had a mermaid tail,” I answered, trying to sound sane even as my brain faded, “we’d move to the ocean and I’d open a coffee shop under a coral reef.”
Zoey giggled, the bottle almost falling from her lips. “Then Daddy could be an octopus?”
Zade didn’t react for two full seconds. Then, eyes still on the screen, his mouth moved. “Only if I get eight arms to handle your chaos.”
I groaned, turning my face into the pillow. “You two are delusional and I’m alone in this world.”
Zoey hugged my arm. “No, you’re not. You have me.”
And yep. That was it. I melted. Again.
I reached up to her hair—still a little damp and tangled from earlier—and gently tucked a few wild strands behind her ear. Then left my hand there. The warmth of her was like a portable charger for my heart. Even if, at times, she was more like a ticking bomb in glitter shoes.
My eyes fluttered closed. Heavy. But every time I kept them shut for more than five seconds, the sound of the TV or Zoey’s shifting jolted me back.
The movie had changed. Now it was about an alien pretending to be a preschool teacher.
“Mommy... can aliens eat pancakes?”
I opened one eye. “If the alien’s smart, he eats pancakes and files his taxes.”
Zade let out a snort.
Zoey seemed to think it over. “Then I wanna be friends with an alien. But not a mean one, okay? One that doesn’t steal Daddy.”
I held back a laugh. “Why would an alien want to steal Daddy?”
“Because Daddy’s tall. Aliens like tall people. For climbing.”
Zade laughed. “This logic... makes no sense. And yet it does.”
I closed my eyes again, half from exhaustion, half because I gave up.
Zoey’s bottle kept rhythm. The TV kept talking. The snow thickened against the windows. The outside world faded, replaced by my daughter’s warm breathing under the blanket and Zade’s long legs bumping mine every time he shifted.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt... like this. No phone buzzing. No lurking threats. No crises to fix. Just the three of us. One dysfunctional family that had no clue when to nap properly but somehow knew how to warm even the coldest day.
Zade reached around Zoey and brushed his fingers against mine. That touch—small, nothing flashy—was enough to remind my heart that he was still here. Still holding on. Even when no one asked him to.
I didn’t look at him. But I knew he was watching me.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered, just soft enough not to disturb Zoey.
I mumbled, “When I wake up, the house better not be full of alien cats...”
Zade replied without missing a beat. “As long as they’re not chameleons.”
I smiled. Just for a second. Then the sleep finally dragged me under. Zoey slipped into dreams, and the world slowed down.
And me? I let go. For the first time all day, I let go. Of the weight. Of the noise. Of everything.
Of being anything... except loved.
//
The tea pot was still warm on the stove when I set down two mugs on the kitchen table. One for me. One for the man who, at some point, started drinking tea like a retired English lord.
Through the kitchen window, I spotted Zade sitting on the garden bench, wearing a charcoal coat far too stylish for snow, hood up, leather gloves on. Zoey stood in front of him, bundled in a puffy pink jacket like an armed marshmallow. They were making... was that a unicorn? Or an alien? Or an alien-unicorn? That kid did not believe in limits.
I turned back toward the counter, ready to pour the tea—then spotted Zade’s phone lying next to the microwave. The screen lit up.
A notification popped up.
Camille (Paris): “Zade, I received the shipment. Merci. Call me when—”
I froze.
And it wasn’t because of the cold.
My hand hovered in midair with no real purpose. My eyes locked onto the name. Camille. With the location in parentheses: Paris. So specific. Like I needed a reminder she came from the land of wine, croissants, and women who could make a grocery list sound like foreplay.
I swallowed.
Hard.
My mouth felt like dust. I glanced back at the window.
And there he was.
Still outside.
Still smiling.
Still Zade.
Zade was tossing Zoey into the air—high enough to make me want to scream "DON'T!" but safe enough for her to cackle like she’d just grown wings.
He caught her effortlessly. Solid arms. Perfect timing. Military reflexes or just a dad’s instinct? Hard to tell. But his face... it was soft. Unfiltered. Warm in a way that made your chest ache a little.
Zoey kissed his cheek. He lowered his head to kiss the tip of her nose. Snow fell around them like they were inside a high-budget Christmas movie with immaculate lighting and a suspiciously perfect soundtrack.
And me?
I stood here. In the kitchen. Holding his phone. With Camille’s name still glowing on the screen.
My eyes dropped back to the message.
Call me when—
When what? When you're alone? When your wife isn't around? When Paris gets too quiet and she needs your voice to fill the space?
Stop.
I shook my head. Then rolled my shoulders.
I don’t care.
I’m not the jealous type. Not clingy. Not paranoid. I’m not... the kind of woman who stares at her husband’s phone and starts writing fanfiction in her own head.
I picked up the phone and placed it on the top shelf. Far from sight. Far from fingers. Far from the itch to scroll. For what? Confirmation that my heart’s as fragile as overcooked glass? No, thanks.
I turned back to the stove and poured the tea. The scent of cinnamon and ginger hit like a warm slap to the brain. Like the universe reminding me to get a grip.
I leaned against the counter and looked outside again. The snow was thicker now. Zoey was trying to copy Zade—making tiny snowballs and chucking them at his chest, which, obviously, didn’t do a damn thing. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he pretended to collapse like she’d taken him out. She shrieked in delight.
And me?
I just kept watching them. Zoey. Zade. The man I married to save my family, who—somewhere along the way—became the very definition of it.
So why... why did Camille make my heart thump like I’d just fallen down a flight of stairs and hit the corner of a really sharp IKEA shelf?
I took a slow sip of tea. Then muttered under my breath, voice dry and cynical like always.
“She said she got a shipment. Maybe it’s glitter. Paris loves art. Maybe she sent Zoey a couture crown. Who knows.” I sneered at my reflection in the oven glass. “Don’t be tacky, Aubrey.”
But it was too late. Camille had already taken a seat in the back of my mind. And of course, she was beautiful. Long waves of hair. Wine-red lips. That kind of voice that says mon chéri like it’s a spell.
I gripped the mug tighter.
Zade chose Zoey. Chose me. Chose this house. But Camille... Camille might be part of his past. Or worse—part of a version of Zade I never got to know. A version he never offered me. One that didn’t belong to us.
The back door opened. A gust of cold wind swept in. Zoey came barreling through first, boots covered in snow, panting like she’d just won the Olympics.
“MOMMY! Daddy won the snowball fight!”
Zade followed a second later, pulling off his gloves, brushing snow from his jacket. His eyes found mine instantly. Locked. Stayed. Like he knew.
Or... maybe I was just spiraling.
“I made tea,” I muttered, turning around before he could say anything.
When he came closer and picked up the mug I’d already poured for him, I didn’t look at him. But I made sure my smile stayed right where it was supposed to be.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.