I hadn’t seen Nancy in five years. Sure, there were birthday texts and shared memes, even a few late-night Zoom calls when life got a little too quiet. But nothing compares to seeing someone in person—especially someone who once knew every corner of your life.
Nancy and I had been that close once. Roommates in college. Swapped secrets over ramen, danced barefoot in our dorm hallway, laughed ourselves breathless over failed dates and midnight cravings.
And then life happened. Her job pulled her out of state. I got married.
Had Olive. Our worlds drifted apart—not broken, just stretched. So when she messaged to say she’d be in town for a seminar and wanted to meet up, I felt that old warmth bubble up.
The kind you only feel for people who knew you before life got complicated. We made plans for a Saturday at the amusement park—kids included. Olive, six years old and made entirely of curls and joy, could hardly wait.
When Nancy showed up, she looked the same—poised, glowing, like the world hadn’t touched her in all the years apart. She held her son Connor’s hand. He was five, with serious eyes and a smile that came with dimples.
The kids clicked instantly, as kids do. No hesitation. No introductions needed.
They just knew. We wandered the park, shared snacks, and let the past thread its way back through shared stories and laughter. It felt… safe.
Familiar. For a while. Later, at a cozy café, the kids devoured a banana split while Nancy and I sipped lavender lattes.
The conversation turned soft, full of nostalgia and that ache you feel when you realize how fast time passes. Then Connor pointed at my phone. “That’s Daddy,” he said brightly, chocolate still on his chin, eyes locked on a hiking photo I’d taken of Spencer—my husband.
Nancy froze. Her laugh came sharp, too quick. “No, no sweetie.
That’s not your daddy,” she said, trying too hard. But Connor insisted. “It is.
He brought me a teddy bear last week.”
Something in the air shifted. It wasn’t loud—it was just there. A sudden, pressing silence between words.
Nancy’s hand twitched toward my phone, trying to redirect the moment, but I was already scrolling, already finding the photo of Spencer alone on the trail. “Is this him, honey?” I asked Connor gently. “Yes!
That’s my Daddy!”
Nancy’s face cracked—not in a dramatic way. Just a small fold, a flicker of panic before she dropped her gaze to her coffee cup. She didn’t deny it.
She didn’t have to. That night, once Olive had fallen asleep beside her dolphin plushie, I locked myself in the closet. My hands shook, but only slightly.
I opened the laptop—the one Spencer never really protected—and found the saved login to an old Gmail. And there it was. Emails.
Threads. Photos. Dozens of them.
Spencer and Nancy, laughing in parks, tangled in bedsheets, holding hands over brunch. And Connor, in photo after photo, cradled in Spencer’s arms like a second child. Like family.
Connor was born eight months after Olive. I stared at a photo of Spencer kissing Nancy’s forehead, the timestamp burned into the corner. I’d been seven months pregnant that day.
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