Page 74 of Pucking the Single Dad
It felt like a blessing.
I climbed the stairs toward the sound of dragons and careful breathing, toward my son and the woman who'd taught us both that broken things could still be whole. Sarah's picture watched me go, and for the first time, I swear she was smiling.
Chapter 26: Serena
I stood in my repaired cabin like a stranger at a funeral—everything perfectly restored, nothing remotely alive. The space that had once represented freedom and new beginnings now echoed with absence. No hockey gear breeding by the door, no Brad reading injury reports at 2 AM when his knee wouldn't let him sleep. Just silence, thick as cotton in my ears.
The contractor had done beautiful work. You'd never know a tree had punched through the roof like nature's fist. The bedroom was actually nicer than before, with a skylight where the damage had been—offering views of the stars I'd never wanted to see alone.
"It looks great," Maria said from behind me, her voice carefully neutral.
"It's perfect," I agreed, the words tasting like ash.
"So why do you look like someone died?"
I turned to face my best friend, seeing my own confusion reflected in her concerned eyes. "I don't know what to do."
"Seems pretty obvious to me." She crashed onto my couch, all theatrical limbs and knowing smirks. "You're catastrophically in love with Hockey Dad."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly that. You just want to make it complicated because complicated feels safer than admitting you want something."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. Finn's face materialized on screen, slightly too close to the camera, one eye comically magnified.
"MISS SERENA. CODE RED. Dad's making that quinoa thing again. The one that tastes like disappointed expectations."
"It's healthy," Brad's voice drifted from somewhere off-screen.
"It's terrible," Finn stage-whispered. "When are you coming home? I need backup. And someone who knows how to order pizza without him noticing."
Home. The word detonated in my chest. He hadn't said "coming over" or "visiting." Home. Like I belonged there. Like my absence was temporary, fixable, wrong.
"Ten minutes, superhero. Stall him."
"How?"
"Ask him about hockey statistics. He'll talk for an hour."
Finn's giggle fizzed through the phone. "You know all Dad's weaknesses."
Yeah, I thought as he hung up.And he knows all of mine.
Maria studied me with the satisfied expression of someone watching their friend finally get a clue. "That kid's got you trained better than a show pony."
"He's been having nightmares," I admitted, sinking beside her. "About me leaving. Brad says he wakes up crying, checking if I'm still there."
"Jesus." Maria's smugness cracked. "And you're standing here why?"
"Because Sarah—"
"Is dead." Maria grabbed my face between her palms, forcing eye contact. "Sarah is dead, and that's tragic and awful and irreversible. But you're alive. That kid's alive. Brad's doing his best impression of alive. And the three of you together? That's not replacing anything. That's building something."
"What if I fail him?" The fear I'd been carrying spilled out. "What if there's an attack and I freeze? What if Brad realizes I'm not Sarah, will never be Sarah—"
"What if the sky falls? What if hockey gets boring? What if you actually let yourself be happy?" Maria softened, pulling me close. "Serena, honey. You're not replacing anyone. You're just... adding. Like a gorgeous addition to a house that needed more room."
"That's a terrible metaphor."
