Naya woke before the sun.
The stillness was almost surreal. For a moment, she wasn't sure where she was. Then she felt the weight of his arm over her waist—the warmth, the safety. Kian's steady breathing hummed beside her. She turned slowly in his embrace, careful not to wake him.
He looked different like this. Untroubled. Peaceful. As though sleep had wiped away the years of pain, stress, and all the battles he'd fought—inside and out.
She lay there, just watching him breathe, wondering when it had started to feel natural—this marriage that had once been built on necessity and compromise. Now, it was something else. Something growing.
A faint creak of the bedroom door broke the quiet.
"Mommy? Daddy?"
Naya heart skipped a bit, she felt strange hearing Tami call her Mommy—surprisingly she liked it
Tami's voice was small, sleepy. Naya sat up, the sheets rustling.
The little girl padded toward the bed, bunny clutched under one arm, rubbing one eye with her other hand.
When she saw her parents still in bed together, a soft smile tugged at her lips.
"You're both here."
"Yes, sweetheart," Naya said, patting the mattress. "Come snuggle with us."
Kian stirred just as Tami climbed in, his arm curling protectively around her instinctively. She nestled between them, content, bunny tucked beneath her chin. Without prompting, she reached for both their hands and intertwined her fingers with theirs.
"It feels like a real family now," she whispered, voice already trailing toward sleep.
Kian opened one eye and smiled.
"That's because it is."
---
Later that morning, the sun streamed through the curtains in thin lines, casting golden stripes across the floor. Tami still slept, arms sprawled like she owned the whole bed.
Naya stood at the doorway with a cup of tea, hair tousled, wearing one of Kian's shirts. She watched her husband and daughter tangled in the sheets—his hand resting on her tiny back protectively, her face buried against his chest.
She didn't want to disturb them.
So she walked to the kitchen quietly, knowing full well she wouldn't cook—Kian always did. But the kettle whistled as if to fill the silence, so she poured a cup and sat at the small breakfast table.
Her eyes drifted to the drawings on the fridge—Tami's crayon versions of their odd little family. Lopsided hearts, crooked smiles, all of them holding hands.
How far they'd come.
It's the weekend, they had more than enough time to spend with Tami so she went back to the bedroom to Join her new Family
---
Tami dreamt of a time she didn't like remembering, but the memories pushed through like weeds in a garden.
Her mother had always looked perfect—flawless makeup, fitted suits, designer perfume that lingered long after she'd left the room. Clarissa had this way of appearing in a whirlwind and vanishing just as quickly.
Tami remembered mornings when she'd run into the foyer in her socks, hoping for a goodbye hug. Sometimes she got one—a quick squeeze, a promise of a gift from wherever her mother was flying off to next.
"I'll bring you something from Paris, sweetheart."
But those hugs were always rushed. The goodbyes always felt too long. And the hellos were always too brief.
Clarissa brought her the most beautiful things. Gold-trimmed notebooks. Sparkling shoes. A doll that blinked and spoke in three languages.
But she never brought her presence. Never brought bedtime kisses. Never asked what Tami had drawn that day or if the girl at school still bullied her.
Her father had tried to fill the gap.
Even when exhausted from work, Kian came home and sat on the floor with her, reading stories, pretending to be a dragon, letting her paint his nails bright pink just because she asked.
She remembered one night in particular—him helping her with a school project while her mother argued on the phone in another room, barely glancing at them.
After the call, Clarissa walked past them without a word.
"Don't you care that she's failing science?" Kian had asked.
"She'll be fine. She has a tutor."
"She needs you, Clarissa."
"And she has you," Clarissa shot back. "Isn't that enough?"
It wasn't.
Tami remembered crying that night, hidden under her blanket. Not because she didn't have toys. But because she didn't have her mom.
Then came the silence. The growing tension. The whispered fights and slammed doors. And then the divorce.
No one asked her what she wanted. No one except her dad.
---
She blinked awake now, sandwiched between both her parents, feeling the safety she used to crave.
Naya brushed a curl from her forehead. "Good morning, baby."
"Was I dreaming?" she whispered. "You were both with me…"
"We still are," Kian said, voice groggy.
Tami looked at them both, her face serious for a moment. "I want to stay like this forever."
Kian reached over and tucked her close. "So do I."
For the first time in a long time, Tami believed that maybe she finally could.