THE ALARM hadn't gone off.

Auden stared at her phone in disbelief, the numbers 8:47 AM glowing accusingly back at her like a neon sign announcing her failure. The taste of sleep still coated her tongue, bitter and metallic, while her stomach dropped with the familiar sensation of everything spiraling out of control.

Catherine's school started at nine-fifteen, and she had a meeting with potential buyers at ten-thirty. The morning routine that usually ran like clockwork — her one reliable anchor in a life that felt increasingly unmoored — had been obliterated by Cillian's well-meaning attempt to help.

"Fuck," she hissed, whipping off the sheets and climbing out of bed. She wrapped her robe tight around her body before practically flying out of the room and towards her inevitable.

"I thought I'd let you sleep in," Cillian said when she'd stumbled downstairs in a panic, finding him standing in the kitchen with Catherine perched on the counter, both of them covered in what appeared to be pancake batter. Cillian was leaning against the kitchen island, drinking tea from a chipped mug while Catherine ate a pancake with her bare hands, occasionally dipping it into what seemed to be a community bowl of syrup.

"You looked exhausted," Cillian added, glancing at her briefly as he lifted his mug to his lips.

The words sent a flare of anger up her stomach, hot and immediate like touching a burner.

Exhausted. Of course she was exhausted.

The observation felt more like an accusation, like evidence of her inadequacy rather than acknowledgment of how hard she'd been working. She'd been carrying the weight of their household for months — years, really — while he disappeared for weeks at a time, living in hotels and eating catered meals while she juggled Catherine's schedule, the gallery, and the endless domestic mathematics of keeping their life running. And now he was standing there acting like he'd done her some kind of favor by destroying her entire morning schedule.

"You turned off my alarm," she accused, her voice dangerously quiet despite the way her blood seemed to boil. The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in on her. "I was supposed to be up three hours ago."

"I just thought—"

"Yes, you just thought." The rage built higher, past her abdomen and into her chest, spreading like wildfire through her ribs. All the lingering unresolved tension from the night before, all the frustration she'd swallowed down when he'd touched her face in Catherine's room, all the resentment that had been building — it all came rushing to the surface at once. Her hands were shaking with it.

"You thought you'd help. But now Catherine will be late for school, I'll be late for work, and everything is—"

She could see Catherine watching them from the counter, syrup-sticky fingers stilled in the air, eyes wide with the particular uncertainty children get when they sense their world tilting. That image — her daughter's face trying to process the tension crackling between her parents — was the only thing that kept Auden from unleashing the full force of her fury.

She closed her eyes, inhaled the scent of unwanted breakfast and her own rising panic. Took a deep breath that caught slightly in her throat. Shoved it all down into that familiar hollow space where she kept everything that couldn't be dealt with right now.

"It's fine," she replied, though her voice came out tighter than she'd intended, brittle around the edges. "I'll handle it."

But it wasn't fine. What he'd actually done was disable her — the one thing she'd spent a year perfecting, the one thing that allowed their family to function despite his unpredictable schedule.

Auden began her checklist. She knew Catherine's school uniform was still in the wash because she'd forgotten to move it to the dryer the night before since he had been distracted by Cillian's return and the conversation that had left her lying awake until past midnight. Her daughter's lunch wasn't packed because Cillian would have assumed that the school provided lunch on Wednesdays (they didn't — she'd told him this dozens of times).

And Catherine herself was a sticky mess, her dark curls tangled and unbrushed, nowhere near ready for the day.

"Auden, I'm sorry," Cillian began. He set his mug down on the counter, moving toward her with that guilty expression she'd seen too many times before. It was the look of a man who'd tried to do something good yet somehow made everything worse. "I was trying to help, I didn't realize—"

"Please stop. Not right now." She held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. But Cillian didn't stop moving. He kept approaching, and something primal in Auden's chest tightened as she watched him draw closer to where Catherine sat.

Their daughter was no longer eating. No, that had stopped the second Auden's voice had raised. Rather, in an effort to self-soothe, she had begun to fiddle with her breakfast. The pancake in her hand had gone soggy, no longer in its fluffy shape but a manhandled ball of dough.

Auden stepped sideways, placing herself between Cillian and Catherine. The movement was instinctive, protective. "Just...get her cleaned up, please."

She moved around him with sharp, efficient movements, her bare feet silent on the cold kitchen tiles. The familiar motion of throwing Catherine's uniform in the dryer, setting the timer for ten minutes helped steady her, but her hands still trembled. It was a lingering effect of her unchecked anger mingling with her growing anxiety to get things moving. But she found that the sound of the dryer starting was almost comforting, a mechanical hum that meant she was fixing things, making them work again.

One thing checked off the list that always seemed to grow.

When she returned to the kitchen from the laundry room, Cillian was awkwardly wiping the counters, his hands maneuvering around the spot where Catherine was still sitting. Auden nearly rolled her eyes.

Why do I have to do everything?

"Let's have Mommy get you cleaned up, sweets," she said to her daughter, deliberately changing course from what she'd said moments before. She lifted Catherine down from the counter. Auden's elbow bumped into Cillian's arm as she did this, but she didn't apologize.

For a moment, Auden held Catherine's body against her, her daughter's legs instinctively wrapping around Auden's core. Catherine was getting too big for this, but Auden hardly minded. Instead, she let her nose graze the top of her head, letting the sweet, powdery smell of Catherine fill her nose. She was warm and solid in her arms. Safe. Protected. It was enough for the tension in her hands to loosen, the trembling to cease entirely.

This was the only thing that ever seemed to ground her these days. Little moments of comfort that her daughter unknowingly gave — for better or for worse.

"C'mon," Auden breathed, "I can't let you go to school all covered in maple syrup."

"I can take her to school," Cillian offered, tossing the dirtied rag into the sink basin, where dishes piled high. He turned, reaching for Catherine with hands that still had batter under the nails, hands that had turned off her alarm, hands that disrupted everything they touched. "Let me—"

Auden jerked away sharply, her grip on Catherine tightening as if Cillian were reaching for something breakable, something precious that she knew he would damage. The movement was so sudden, so fierce, that Catherine's head bumped against Auden's.

"No." The word came out like a barrier, absolute and unyielding.

Cillian's hands froze in midair, his expression shifting from hopeful to wounded.

"Auden—"

"No," she repeated, backing away another step. She could feel Catherine's confusion in the way her body tensed in her arms, could sense her daughter trying to understand why her mother was holding her so tightly, why her dad's outstretched hands suddenly seemed unwelcome.

But Auden couldn't help it. Everything Cillian touched lately seemed to crumble. Their marriage, their routine, their peace. She wouldn't let him touch this — wouldn't let him touch Catherine and leave his particular brand of chaos on her daughter's skin like fingerprints on glass.

"I'll take her myself," she said, her voice steady now but cold. "I'll handle it."

Cillian's hands dropped to his sides. "Let me fix this. Please."

"You can't." The words escaped before she could stop them, brutal in their honesty. "You can't fix this, Cillian. You can't just..." She gestured with one hand helplessly at the kitchen, at the mess he made, at the space between them that seemed to grow wider every day. "This isn't something you can just make better."

That's not fair, her mind yelled back immediately. He was trying to help.

But fairness felt like a luxury she couldn't afford this morning, not when everything was falling apart and she was the one who'd have to put it back together. Not when he kept reaching for Catherine with those same hands that had dismantled their carefully constructed life without him here.

Cillian swallowed hard, his blue eyes darkening as he stared at her. It was silent between them — just for a second — the way it always was when Cillian was assessing his next words. Auden was already mentally preparing for a jab delicately concealed behind the guise of patience.

"If you want me be useful for once," Cillian replied slowly. "You're going to have to let me near my own daughter."

The words hit like a slap. My own daughter. As if Auden were keeping Catherine from him, as if she were the one creating distance.

But wasn't she? Wasn't she holding Catherine like a shield, like something that needed protecting from him?

At that moment, as if sensing the conversation was about her, Catherine looked between them, confusion clouding her face. "Why can't Daddy help?"

The question pierced through Auden's defenses. Because Daddy breaks things, she wanted to say. Because everything Daddy touches falls apart, and you're the one thing I won't let him ruin.

Instead, she forced a smile that felt like stretching plastic wrap too thin. "Daddy's busy, baby. I will take care of you."

She took a step toward the stairs when Cillian's voice stopped her.

"Aud." His tone was different now — quieter, more resigned. "It's already ten past nine."

She froze. Catherine's school started in five minutes.

"You're still in your pajamas," he continued, and she could hear him trying to keep his voice gentle, trying not to make this about the fight they'd just had. "Your hair..." He gestured vaguely, and Auden became suddenly, painfully aware of how she must look — rumpled robe, hair sticking up at odd angles, no makeup, nowhere close to being ready for work.

The math was simple and devastating. If she took Catherine upstairs to get her cleaned up, then got herself ready, then drove Catherine to school, her daughter would be at least twenty minutes late. Maybe thirty. And Auden would miss her first meeting of the day.

"Shit," she breathed, then immediately looked down at Catherine with wide eyes. "Pretend you didn't hear that."

Catherine giggled despite everything, and the sound was like a small knife twisting in Auden's chest.

Cillian stepped closer, his movements hesitant, non-threatening. "Let me take her. I can get her cleaned up and to school in five minutes. You know I can."

Auden's grip on Catherine tightened instinctively. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea. He would mess it up somehow. He would forget Catherine's backpack, or take her to school with her hair still sticky, or—

Catherine's hesitant voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "I don't want to be late. Ms. McDonnell will be mad."

Auden released a long sigh. This is why she had a routine. Because her daughter's anxiety, inherited from her, already showing itself at six years old. Catherine hated being late, hated the attention it brought, hated walking into a classroom where everyone was already settled.

Auden closed her eyes, feeling the pressure of impossible choices. Protect Catherine from Cillian's chaos, or protect her from the shame of being late. Trust her husband with their daughter, or trust that her own stubbornness was more important than Catherine's comfort.

When she opened her eyes, Cillian was watching her with something that looked almost like pity.

"Please," he pressed quietly. "Let me do this one thing."

Slowly — reluctantly — Auden loosened her grip.

"Don't forget her backpack," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she transferred Catherine to Cillian's arms. "And make sure you wipe the syrup out of her hair. All of it. And her lunch goes in the blue container —"

"I know," Cillian cut her off softly, settling Catherine against his hip with the natural ease of a father, even if he was an inconsistent one. "I've got it."

As he carried Catherine toward the stairs, Auden felt something hollow open up in her chest. She watched them go — her daughter's arms wrapped trustingly around her father's neck, her voice chattering about something Auden couldn't hear — and wondered if letting go felt like this for everyone, or if it was just her who felt like she was losing pieces of herself every time she had to choose between being right and being practical.

But she was tired of waiting for Cillian to help her figure it out. Tired of being the one to smooth over every disruption, every well-meaning mistake, every time he tried to help and somehow made more work for her instead. Tired of feeling like the choreographer of a dance he kept forgetting the steps to.

Auden stood there for a minute longer, listening to the sound of Cillian's voice upstairs, Catherine's responding giggles, the ordinary sounds of a father getting his daughter ready for school. Then she forced herself to move, taking the stairs two at a time to get ready for work, because she knew if she lingered any longer that her thoughts would swallow her whole, right there in the middle of the kitchen.

In her bedroom, she yanked open dresser drawers with more force than necessary, pulling out whatever was closest. The wood protested with a sharp crack that made her wince. She found clean underwear, a bra that had seen better days, dark jeans that were professional enough for her office. She moved with the grace of someone who had learned to get ready in under ten minutes, a skill developed over years of solo morning routines.

In the closet, the first blouse she pulled out had a stain on the sleeve — when had that happened? She tossed it aside, the fabric landing in a heap on the unmade bed. The second was wrinkled beyond salvation, clearly from being shoved into the hanger still damp from the last wash. Her hands moved frantically through the tops, each option worse than the last. A cardigan with a loose button that she'd been meaning to fix for weeks. A shirt that had shrunk in the dryer and now pulled uncomfortably across her chest.

Nothing fits. Nothing works. Why can't anything just work?

"Come on," she muttered under her breath, finally settling on a green blouse that was slightly too tight but at least clean. The fabric clung to the soft pouch of her stomach, pulled across her breasts that had never quite returned to their pre-pregnancy shape, making her feel exposed and unprofessional.

She caught her reflection in the mirror as she pulled it over her head and immediately looked away, unable to reconcile this version of herself with the woman she used to be. Her hair was a disaster, frizzy on one side from sleep and flat on the other where she'd slept on it wrong.

Before Catherine, her waves had been manageable to an extent. But pregnancy had turned her hair an unruly texture and never quite recovered from it. She ran her fingers through the strands, trying to tame the worst of it, but there was no time for the careful routine that might actually make a difference. No time to do anything about the way her body had become a stranger to her, six years later and still waiting for some mythical return to normal that would never come.

The belt she needed was nowhere to be found — probably in Catherine's room where she'd been playing dress-up yesterday. Auden made do with one that was too long, the excess leather awkwardly threaded through the loops and slightly fraying at the buckle.

As she dabbed a bit of concealer under her eyes, Auden caught Catherine's voice from down the hall, that particular whine she got when she was being difficult about getting dressed. Auden closed her eyes for a moment, pressed her palms against them until she saw stars, and reminded herself that her daughter was just a child, that mornings were hard for everyone.

The bedroom door was ajar, and through it she could see Cillian crouched beside Catherine's bed, holding up her school uniform — the navy blue polo shirt and gray skirt that Catherine was emphatically shaking her head at.

"Come on, love," Cillian was saying, his voice strained with forced patience. "You need to wear this. It's your school uniform."

"I don't want to wear it," Catherine declared, crossing her arms over her pajama top — the pink one with the unicorns that was her current favorite. "It's wet."

Auden reached for her mascara, unscrewing the wand with deliberate slowness. She could handle this. Cillian could handle this. Catherine was his daughter too, even if she'd never quite learned to see him as anything more than the man who lived in their house and sometimes made her breakfast.

"It's not wet, Kittie. It's just a tiny bit damp. It'll dry once you have it on."

The trembling in Auden's hands began again, smudging mascara on her lower lid. She wiped it away with her thumb, then moved to the other eye. In the mirror, she could see Cillian's reflection down the hall, in Catherine's doorway, still holding the uniform like a peace offering.

"I'm not going," Catherine declared suddenly, her tiny voice rising.

The mascara wand froze halfway to Auden's lashes as she watched Cillian run a hand through his hair, that gesture he made when he was reaching the end of his rope.

"Catherine," his voice carried a note of warning now, "we need to get you dressed. Mummy has to go to work, and you have to go to school."

"I'm not going!" Catherine threw herself back onto the bed, face-first into her pillows. "And you can't make me!"

Auden set down the mascara, her shaking fingers thumping against the perfume bottles on her vanity.

Then she heard the defeat in his voice: "Catherine, please. I don't know what else to do. Just put it on for me."

Auden was in the doorway to Catherine's room in an instant.

Catherine, having sensed more eyes on her, peeked up from the pillows, her mess of waves plastered over her forehead. When she realized it was Auden, she slowly sat up, looking grateful for her sudden re-appearance.

"I don't want to wear wet clothes to school," Catherine told her. Her lower lip jutted forward, her chin scrunching in a way that symbolized an oncoming tantrum. Auden knew that there was a very small window to ensure that did not happen.

Auden moved her eyes to her husband, her fingers closing into a tight first behind her back in an effort to conceal the way they trembled. "Cillian, what's the problem?"

Cillian glanced behind his shoulder, and she caught the flash of relief in his eyes before it was replaced by something more guarded. "Just trying to get her dressed. I grabbed her uniform from the dryer, but it's still a bit damp."

"It's yucky," Catherine protested, gazing up at Auden with wide, hopeful blue eyes.

Fuck. Those eyes.

Was this how her father had felt with her?

Auden looked away. She let herself lift an arm, her hand still enclosed, to glance down at her watch, pushing the thought from her mind instantly.

"Why didn't you put it in the dryer last night?" Cillian questioned her in an exhausted tone, as Auden checked the time. The numbers seemed to mock her — it'll only take five minutes, he had said. Yet fifteen minutes had gone by and Catherine was officially late.

Just another promise broken.

She flicked her eyes back to her husband, "Do you really want to get into that right now? Just run it again at this point."

"I tried. Look, it's really not that wet—"

Catherine's eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to wear it."

"Well, that's not really up for discussion." Auden moved toward the bed, and Cillian gratefully handed over the clothes.

She touched the uniform — it was indeed damp, cold and clammy against her fingertips.

"Jesus, Cillian. This is soaked."

"It's not soaked—"

"It is. She can't wear this."

How do you not notice that clothes are wet?

"Maybe if we just—"

"If we just what?" She kept her voice carefully modulated, but something dangerous flickered behind her eyes. "Fix it with your magical problem-solving skills?"

Cillian ran a hand over his jaw, fingers scratching over the stubble he hadn't shaved. It was then that Auden noticed the heavy bags under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks. "There's no need to be sarcastic."

"Right," Auden scoffed, her head shaking slightly. "Well from where I'm standing, your five-minute promise is looking a lot like another one of your unfulfilled assurances."

Catherine had gone very still, eyes darting between them with hypervigilant attention. Both of them noticed, their voices dropping even lower, turning their argument into something that felt more like poison being administered through IV drip.

"Look," Cillian said, his words measured, "maybe if I hadn't turned off your alarm, we wouldn't be in this position. But I was trying to give you something you clearly need—"

"And what's that?" Auden's smile was razor-thin.

"Rest. Sleep," Cillian looked around Catherine's bedroom, as if it was clear evidence of his next point. "A break from micromanaging every detail of her life."

The statement landed like a slap disguised as concern.

"Micromanaging." She repeated the word slowly, as if tasting something bitter in a dessert meant to be sweet, "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Cillian rolled his eyes with a grunt, "I'm just saying that maybe if you trusted me occasionally—"

"Trust you?" Her laugh was soft, almost musical, and somehow more cutting than any shout. "Like how I should trust you to handle breakfast? Or get Catherine ready? How's that working out for us, Cillian?"

"I'm learning," Cillian tried to reassure. "I've been gone, but I'm trying to—"

"Oh, you're learning." She nodded as if this explained everything. "How lovely. Catherine's getting an education in being late for school so you can learn basic parenting skills. I'm sure she's thrilled to be your practice run."

Cillian's face went very pale, his jaw twitching in the way that told Auden he was angry. "That's not really fair."

"Right. Fair," Auden's voice remained perfectly level, each word enunciated with surgical precision. "You want to talk about what's not fair? Let's do it. Because I find it fascinating that you think six months of weekend parenting makes you qualified to give me any sort of criticism as to how I run my house."

Cillian's shoulders pulled back almost imperceptibly, his spine straightening in an automatic defensive response. But then came the deflation — a subtle sag as the words hit their mark, because part of him knew there was truth in the accusation. His jaw worked silently, the muscles jumping beneath his skin as he fought to find words that wouldn't make this worse.

"I live here too." The words came out with his chin lifted slightly, trying to reclaim some ground, but his voice betrayed him. There was a hollow quality to it, like he didn't quite believe his own assertion.

Auden blinked. "Oh. I must've forgotten. I wonder why that is."

The silence stretched between them, as brittle as ice. Neither of them moved. They just stood there, locked, both assessing whether to keep this argument afloat. The only obstacle: Catherine.

Cillian's face had gone blank, his eyes void of any reaction. It was the kind of stillness that came before a flinch. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, tensed into loose fists. Then Auden caught the slightest forward lean of his body, as if he was fighting the impulse to either step closer in anger or step back in retreat.

But he didn't say anything.

Cillian's quiet wasn't peaceful — it was the frozen tension of someone who knew that any movement, any word, might shatter something irreparable, especially in front of his daughter. She waited patiently for him to decide. Auden watched as his gaze dropped to the floor, then drifted to some neutral point in the room, before he looked back at her.

There was something raw and exposed in his expression — a look that gave her the answer regarding what happened next. The anger was still set in his mouth, the way his breathing had gone slightly shallow — but what struck Auden the most was that he was struggling. His frustrations had been complicated by the knowledge that he'd earned this response from her, that his absence had consequences he was only now fully grasping.

Catherine's breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room, amplified because both parents had gone so utterly, dangerously quiet.

Auden let it linger a bit more, until she was sure her point had been made, before she decided enough was enough.

"Did you check her other uniform?" she asked, her tone more condescending than she anticipated. "The one she wore yesterday?"

"It's dirty. Chocolate stain." Cillian's voice had gone flat, defeated.

"Of course it is." She pressed her lips together, the gesture somehow more damning than any curse. "Fine. We'll blow-dry it."

Catherine said in a small voice that broke Auden's heart, "I don't want to be late."

"You won't be late, sweetheart," Cillian murmured, reaching out to smooth away Catherine's tangled curls from her forehead. "We'll figure this out."

"No need to lie. School has already started," Auden told him, her words resigned, already heading toward the hallway. "Right now, it looks like we're going to have to figure it out right into detention."

"She's six, Auden. She's not going to get detention."

"She's going to get marked tardy, which goes on her record."

"Don't be dramatic. It's grade one," Cillian called out as she rummaged through the bathroom drawers.

She returned with the hair dryer, plugging it in near Catherine's bed. The cord was too short, so she had to stretch it taut, the plastic housing warm in her hands. The noise filled the room as she held the uniform shirt under the hot air, the fabric fluttering like a trapped bird.

"There," she said after a few minutes, feeling the fabric. Still slightly damp around the seams, but wearable. "Catherine, arms up."

"Is it still wet?" Catherine asked hesitantly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the hair dryer as Auden switched it off.

"It's fine. Put it on."

Catherine looked at her father, then at her mother, and something in Auden's tone must have convinced her because she slowly, reluctantly, pulled off her pajamas before she raised her arms. Auden pulled the shirt over her head, perhaps a little more roughly than necessary, the fabric catching slightly on Catherine's chin.

"There," she said, smoothing down the fabric with hands that were still shaking slightly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Cillian was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read — part hurt, part confusion, part something that might have been disappointment. "I was trying to help."

"You always are," Auden mumbled, before rising to her feet and taking her daughter's hand. "Why don't you help by going to clean up the kitchen?"

She didn't wait for him to respond. Rather, she brushed past him, Catherine in tow, to head to the bathroom. Auden threw Catherine's curls into something resembling order while Catherine complained about the brush pulling too hard. Each stroke felt like an apology she couldn't voice, her fingers gentle despite her haste.

"Daddy doesn't brush it like that," Catherine complained, and Auden felt something sharp twist in her chest — jealousy, maybe, or just the familiar sting of being found lacking.

"Well, Daddy is busy cleaning up the mess he made," she'd replied, immediately regretting the edge in her voice when Catherine's face fell.

By the time they came back downstairs, Catherine in her slightly-wrinkled uniform and knee socks that didn't quite match, Auden had packed a hastily assembled lunch of crackers and cheese and grabbed her daughter's backpack from where Cillian had left it on the floor the night before, instead of hanging it on its designated hook by the door.

Everything has a place. The thought carved itself deeper into her mind with each small violation of order. Why can't he remember that everything has a place? But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't really about the backpack. It was about coming home to find dishes in the sink when she'd left them clean. It was about searching for Catherine's school shoes only to find them kicked under the couch. It was about the slow erosion of the systems she'd built to keep their lives from falling apart, systems that only seemed to matter to her.

Catherine bent down by the door, half-struggling to slip her shoes on as Auden rummaged through her purse for the keys. Her hands were still trembling — from caffeine withdrawal or exhaustion, she couldn't tell anymore. Behind her, she heard the soft clatter of dishes, the trickling of water turning on and off, before ceasing all together. The sounds of Cillian's guilty cleanup, too little too late. And just as it seemed they were about to finally head out the door, his voice came from the hallway.

"Aud," he called out, "Wait."

Wait. Always wait. Wait for him to remember. Wait for him to come home. Wait for him to prioritize them over whatever audition or callback or networking event demanded his attention. The accumulated weight of all that waiting pressed down on her chest until she could barely breathe.

Auden pressed her head against the front door, her eyes falling closed as she tried to take deep breaths.

For an instant, time slowed. In her mind, she saw herself screaming — not the controlled, measured voice she used when Catherine was listening to them, but something primal and raw. She saw herself crying the ugly, desperate tears she never allowed herself in daylight. She saw all the nights she had spent alone in this house, passing out on the couch after a long day of work and childcare, too exhausted to move to her bed, while he was at some industry party she wasn't invited to, some late-night shoot she couldn't attend because someone had to put Catherine to sleep.

In that moment, the endless responsibility and whining and apologies became too much. The fragile choreography of their lives — her lists and schedules and backup plans — all of it felt like chains. She could visualize herself leaving, walking out the door with nothing but her purse and never coming back. It would be so simple. It would be so easy. She could shed this life away, like she had done before so many years ago in Chicago when everything became too complicated, too demanding, and wipe this all away.

Just walk away. Leave them both. Let him figure out how to get Catherine to school, how to remember parent-teacher conferences, how to be the one who worries about everything.

The desire gripped her so tightly her knuckles went white around her purse strap. And what scared Auden most is that it didn't frighten her at all.

The fantasy felt like relief.

"Mummy," Catherine's voice broke her thoughts, small and trusting, "Can you help me with my zipper?"

Auden opened her eyes, blinking once, her hand falling away from the door and the vision of herself boarding a plane along with it. And when her eyes slid to her daughter — no taller than Auden's thighs with big blue eyes and soft, auburn hair and that innocent gaze that expected nothing but love and safety — the remorse crashed over her like a wave.

What kind of mother thinks about abandoning her child?

The guilt was immediate and crushing. This little person who depended on her completely, who had never asked to be born into this chaos of adult failures and disappointments. Catherine, who still believed her parents could fix anything, who trusted that they would always be there.

She gave her a tight smile, her voice gentler than it had been all morning. "Of course, sweets."

She knelt down, working the stubborn zipper with more patience than she'd shown anyone in hours. The intimacy of the gesture — this small act of mothering — made her throat tight with shame.

Footsteps approached from behind, cautious and hesitant. She could feel Cillian's presence before she heard his voice, the familiar weight of his guilt filling the space between them.

"I'm sorry," Cillian said, his voice raw with regret. "Really, Auden, I was just trying to—"

"I know what you were trying to do." The words came out softer than she'd intended, drained of the venom she'd been carrying. She kept her hands busy with Catherine's jacket, smoothing down the fabric with unnecessary attention. The guilt over her escape fantasy had stolen the fire from her anger, leaving only exhaustion in its place. "But good intentions don't make Catherine any less late for school."

Maybe Auden was being too hard on him. Maybe this was all a big nothing, a simple mishandling that could be worked through later. Part of her wanted to comfort him, to say it was okay, to absorb his pain the way she always did. But she was so tired of being the one who fixed things, who smoothed over the rough edges of their life together.

I'm not the villain here, she reminded herself, though the thought felt less certain now. I'm just trying to hold everything together.

"I'll pick her up after school," he offered, his voice smaller now, almost pleading. "I'll make dinner. I'll—"

"You'll be gone by then." She finally met his eyes, and the words came out gentler than they had any right to be, softened by her own guilt. She could see her own exhaustion reflected back at her in his face, could see that he was trying, even if it never felt like enough. "You always are."

The accusation hung between them, but without the hateful edges that would've been there had she said it earlier. Instead, it sounded almost sad, resigned. She watched him absorb the words, watched the way they seemed to hollow him out from the inside.

For a moment she thought Cillian might argue, might defend himself, might point out that his work was what paid for their house, their life, Catherine's school. But he didn't. He just stood there in the hallway, remorse written across his features like a roadmap of his failures, and somehow that made her feel worse instead of vindicated.

We're both drowning, she realized suddenly. Just in different ways.

"Come on, Catherine," she said, opening the front door to the crisp morning air. Her voice was quiet now, depleted. "Let's go."

But as they stepped outside, she felt Cillian's hand brush against her arm — a tentative touch, a question. And surprisingly, she didn't pull away.

Rather, she turned back to him, studying his face for a moment — the worry lines that had deepened over the past year, the way his hair stuck up slightly from running his hands through it, the familiar blue eyes that had once made her feel like she was home. Without thinking, she leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering there for just a heartbeat.

It was an apology he would never understand. It wasn't for her sharp words this morning, but for the terrible moment when she had imagined a life without him, without Catherine, without any of this beautiful, suffocating responsibility. The kiss tasted like regret and love tangled together.

"Have a good day," she told him quietly, stepping back.

"I love you," Cillian said, the words rushing out like he was afraid she might disappear before he could say them.

Auden looked at him, standing there in their doorway in yesterday's clothes, and felt the familiar ache in her chest. It was love and loath and exhaustion all knotted together so tightly she couldn't tell distinguish what exactly she felt. The words sat in her throat, three simple syllables she'd said thousands of times before, but today they felt too painful to lift.

She just nodded once, then turned to guide Catherine toward the car, her daughter's small hand warm in hers as they walked away.