Page 96 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“Like I’m floating and sinking even though I’m still standing.”
“Good. Stay there. What else?”
“Like I’m…with them.”
“The babies?”
I nod. My hand slides over the gentle curve of my belly. “I used to love this,” I whisper. “Being in the water. Swimming was everything. Now it feels like I forgot how to breathe.”
Mina doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t coach or prod. She just waits.
I step in up to my knees. It’s hard. I’m shaking. The ripples spread out. But it’s not unbearable. And then, slowly, I walk forward until the water reaches my hips.
My breath catches.
Mina notices. “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I do. It takes a few tries to make it steady. But then…then it flows. I close my eyes and press a hand to my belly. “Hey, you two,” I murmur. “Did you know your mom used to be a mermaid?”
My voice cracks a little. I don’t care.
“I’m going to show you the ocean one day. When I can. When it doesn’t hurt.”
The water moves gently around me. And I swear, for a moment, I feel something inside me ease. Not vanish. But shift. Like the tide pulling away from the shore.
Just a little. Just enough.
When I finally step out of the pool, my legs are trembling—not from the physical effort, but from the emotional release of it all.
Mina hands me a towel and doesn’t say anything, which I love her for. There’s no applause, no “I told you so.” Just warmth. Respect.
“You did something big today,” she says as I wrap myself up and sit on the nearest lounger.
I nod. “It felt…good. Hard. But good.”
“That’s how healing starts.”
“Not with fireworks and huge leaps?”
Half a smile. “Nope. With wet ankles and painful courage.”
I laugh. It sounds like a real one. The kind that belongs in a version of my life where trauma isn’t controlling me anymore. I know this won’t be the last time the water scares me. But it’s the first time in years that I let it touch me—and didn’t run.
That counts. That counts for everything.
Back inside the house, the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls is already curling down the hall, thanks to Mrs. Culpepper. That woman is a saint. Even Mom likes her—they met last night, since my folks stayed over. Mom said, “She’s ruthless and efficient. Learn from her.”
I promised I would.
Colin’s blasting something that sounds like classic funk from the kitchen speakers. Arabella’s probably dancing in her pajamas. She stayed over last night, and it’s not the first time. I doubt it’ll be the last. Dean’s probably already dressed like he’s heading into a board meeting. Tic’s likely reading three newspapers at once and sipping black coffee.
I walk past the nursery and pause. Just for a second.
The lights are off, but I can still see the shimmer of the ceiling mural. The reef glows faintly in the sunlight spilling in from the hallway window. It still makes my chest ache, but not the way it used to. The ache doesn’t drown me now—it lingers, then lifts.
I press my hand to the doorframe. “Soon,” I whisper. “I’m coming soon.”
Then I turn toward the kitchen. Toward music. Toward cinnamon rolls. Toward family.
