Page 76 of The Yoga Teacher

She asked for this.

And I get to do it for her.

That thought… it stunned him.

To be of use. To be ofserviceto her, even now—especiallynow—was its own kind of grace. He had broken so much, and still he got to love her in this small, silent way.

He sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

His gaze swept across the kitchen—he’d packed away the dishtowels she’d picked out, the coffee mugs she always used. But even now the ghost of her was still here.

He didn’t deserve any of it.

He didn’t deserve this house.

Didn’t deserve the memories tucked into the corners.

Didn’t deserve the photos still hanging in the living room.

It belonged to Hannah.

Even if she never stepped foot inside this house again—he wanted it to be hers.

She deserved that much.

No—she deservedmore.

He’d spent years letting her carry more, wait longer, bend further. Now, there would be no more asking. From this point forward, he would give without expectation. Do without being seen.

He wasn’t trying to win her back. This wouldn’t earn forgiveness. He just wanted the rest of his life to be a long, steady answer to the question:What did you ever do for her?

He could do more for her. With whatever he had, he woulddomore for her.

He would use every ridiculous, frivolous skill he had—branding, messaging, viral strategy—and put it all to work for her nonprofit. Quietly. Anonymously.

It wasn’t enough.

He reached under the sink again, twisting the wrench, the pipe groaning in protest. Something shifted. The drip stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daniel sat there for a long moment, breathing in the stale air, his pulse echoing in his ears. He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe just lie down on the cold tile and never get back up.

Instead, he reached for the drawer beside him, fumbling for a rag to wipe his hands.

When he pulled the drawer open, something fluttered loose.

A post-it.

Faded, half-stuck to the wood, curling at the edges.

Call the plumber. Or don’t. I love you anyway. — H

Daniel stared at the tiny square of yellow paper, the ink slightly smudged from time. She’d drawn a heart at the end. A stupid, lopsided heart she always doodled on grocery lists and notes she’d leave in his lunch or in the fridge.

He pressed the paper to his chest, right over the chain tucked under his shirt. The one that held her wedding ring.

She didn’t know he wore it there now. No one did.

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