Secondhand Hearts

The first thing I notice about a man is his shoes. Not in a fetish way. In a detective way. Scuffed loafers mean he doesn't care. Brand new sneakers mean he's trying too hard. And cheap shoes with an expensive watch? That's a man who wants you to see the watch, not the shoes. That's a man who's performing.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop on a Tuesday afternoon, and the man across from me is wearing a watch that costs more than my monthly rent.

"It's a beautiful place," he says, gesturing vaguely at the window. "The city. So much culture."

We're in Croydon. There is a Nando's and a Poundland. The cultural highlight is a bronze statue of a pigeon someone welded to a bollard in 2019.

"Mm," I say.

His name is Gerald. He's fifty-three, divorced, no kids. He's told me this three times already, like he's reading from a script he hasn't quite memorized. He has a boat. He mentioned the boat in his first message. He mentioned it again when we sat down. I'm waiting for him to mention it a third time so I can start a drinking game.

"So," Gerald says, leaning forward. "Tell me about yourself."

I hate this question. It's the laziest question in the world. It's what you ask when you haven't bothered to think of anything specific. But I smile. I've got a good smile. I've practiced it.

"I'm a mum," I say. "Two kids. Well, one kid. A daughter. She's twelve."

Gerald's face does something complicated. A flicker of disappointment, quickly buried. He's not interested in kids. He said "no kids" in his profile, and I should have read that as a warning, not just a fact.

"Twelve," he repeats. "That's a... fun age."

"It's an age," I say.

I take a sip of my flat white. It's lukewarm. I've been nursing it for twenty minutes while Gerald talks about his boat. I should have ordered something stronger. I should have ordered a large glass of wine and downed it in one go before he arrived. But I didn't. I'm trying to be sensible.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I ignore it. It buzzes again.

"Sorry," I say. "I should check that. Could be the school."

Gerald waves a hand. "Of course, of course."

I pull out my phone. Two texts from my daughter, Ruby.

*Mum can I have £20*

*It's for a thing*

I type back: *What thing?*

Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.

*Just a thing*

I sigh. I put the phone face down on the table. Gerald is watching me with an expression that's trying to be patient but is actually just smug. He thinks he's waiting. He thinks he's being generous.

"She's twelve," I say. "Everything is a thing."

"Teenagers," Gerald says, shaking his head. "I don't know how you do it."

I don't know how I do it either. Most days I feel like I'm running on fumes and spite. But I'm not going to tell him that. I'm not going to tell him about the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, or the fact that my ex-husband is three months behind on child support, or the way I lie awake at night wondering if I've completely fucked up my kid's life by getting divorced.

Instead, I say, "You manage."

Gerald nods. He checks his watch. The expensive one. I wonder if he's timing this date. I wonder if he has another one lined up after.

"So," he says, "what are you looking for?"

It's the second laziest question. But I answer it anyway, because I've been trained by a thousand dating apps to answer it. Because I've been on seventeen first dates in the last six months, and I've learned that the answer doesn't matter. What matters is the tone. What matters is the performance.

"Something real," I say. "Someone who wants to build a life. A partnership."

Gerald nods like he's hearing exactly what he wants to hear. But I'm not done.

"And someone who's good with kids," I add. "That's non-negotiable."

The flicker again. The one he thinks he's hiding. He's not hiding it. I've got a PhD in reading men's faces. I've been studying them since I was twenty-two and married the wrong one.

"Of course," Gerald says. "Kids are great."

He doesn't mean it. I can tell. He's saying the words because he thinks he's supposed to, but his eyes are already drifting to the door. He's already planning his exit. He's already writing the text he'll send me later: *Great to meet you, but I don't think we're a match.*

I should be disappointed. I should be sad. But I'm not. I'm relieved.

I finish my coffee and stand up. "I should go," I say. "School run."

Gerald looks surprised. "Already?"

"It's been lovely," I lie. "But I've got to pick up Ruby."

I don't have to pick up Ruby. Ruby takes the bus. But it's a good excuse. It's a clean exit. I've used it before.

Gerald stands up too. He offers a handshake, which is weird. A handshake. Not a hug, not a kiss on the cheek. A handshake, like we've just closed a business deal. I shake his hand and walk out.

The air outside is cold and damp and smells like rain. I stand on the pavement for a moment, breathing it in, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders. Another one down. Another failure.

I pull out my phone. Ruby has sent another text.

*Mum*

*Please*

I type back: *We'll talk when I get home.*

Then I open Tinder. I don't know why. Habit. Muscle memory. My thumb swipes left, left, left, right. A man with a beard and a dog. A man with a motorcycle. A man holding a fish.

I close the app and put my phone in my pocket. I start walking. The bus stop is ten minutes away. I could walk it. I could use the time to think about what I'm doing with my life, why I keep putting myself through this, why I keep hoping that the next one will be different.

But I don't want to think about that. So I think about Ruby instead.

Ruby is twelve. She has my eyes and her father's stubbornness. She's smart and funny and angry in a way that scares me sometimes. She's been angry since the divorce. She's been angry since her dad moved to Manchester with his new girlfriend, who is twenty-eight and has a belly button piercing and posts photos of her brunch on Instagram.

Ruby hates her. I hate her too, but I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to be the bigger person. I'm supposed to tell Ruby that her dad loves her and that his new girlfriend is nice and that everything is going to be okay.

But sometimes I don't want to be the bigger person. Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to call my ex-husband and tell him that he's a selfish prick who abandoned his daughter for a woman who's young enough to be his daughter. But I don't. I send him polite texts asking when he's going to pay the child support. I smile through clenched teeth when he visits. I pretend everything is fine.

Because that's what mothers do. We pretend.

The bus is late. I stand at the stop with my hands in my pockets, watching the sky get darker. There's a man standing a few feet away, also waiting. He's tall, with grey hair and a worn leather jacket. He's reading a book, an actual paper book, which is rare enough to notice. I try to see the title. Something about birds.

He looks up and catches me looking. I look away quickly. Too quickly. I feel my face flush.

"Good book?" I ask, because I'm an idiot.

He smiles. "It's okay. Bit dry. It's about migration patterns."

"Of birds?"

"Of birds."

I nod. "Right. Cool."

Cool. I'm forty-two years old and I just said "cool" like a teenager. I want to sink into the pavement.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm not good at small talk."

"Neither am I," he says. "I'm just good at pretending."

The bus arrives. We get on. He sits at the back, and I sit near the front, and I spend the whole journey trying not to look at him. I fail. Twice. He's still reading his book. He doesn't look up.

I get off at my stop and walk home. The house is a small terraced thing on a street full of small terraced things. It's not much, but it's mine. Well, it's mine and the bank's. I bought it after the divorce, with the money from the settlement and a mortgage I can barely afford. It's got a leaky roof and a boiler that makes strange noises, but it's home.

Ruby is in the living room, watching TV. She doesn't look up when I come in.

"Hey," I say. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

She shrugs. "What do you want me to say?"

I want her to say something real. I want her to tell me about her day, about her friends, about anything. But she's twelve, and she's angry, and she's not going to give me anything I want.

"What was the twenty pounds for?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Ruby."

She looks at me. Her eyes are hard. "It's for a school trip. We need to pay by Friday."

I don't believe her. But I don't have the energy to fight. I pull out my purse and hand her a twenty-pound note.

"Thanks," she says, and turns back to the TV.

I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. It's cheap and it tastes like vinegar, but it does the job. I lean against the counter and close my eyes.

Seventeen first dates. Seventeen failures. And I'm still doing it. Why?

Because I'm lonely. Because I want someone to talk to, someone to hold, someone to share the burden with. Because I want Ruby to have a father figure, someone who'll be there for her in a way her actual father isn't. Because I'm scared of growing old alone.

But mostly because I'm scared of Ruby growing up without a good man in her life. Without someone to show her what a healthy relationship looks like. Without someone to prove that not all men are like her father.

I take a long drink of wine. The kitchen is quiet. The house is quiet. The whole world feels quiet, except for the TV murmuring in the other room and the sound of my own heartbeat.

My phone buzzes. A Tinder notification. A new match.

I open the app. His name is Daniel. He's forty-five, divorced, two kids. He's got kind eyes and a nice smile. His profile says he's a teacher. He likes hiking and cooking and reading.

He's sent me a message: *Hi. Your profile made me smile. How's your week going?*

I stare at the message for a long time. It's a normal message. A nice message. But I've learned that nice messages don't mean anything. I've learned that men can be charming in text and awful in person. I've learned that hope is a dangerous thing.

But I reply anyway. Because I'm an idiot. Because I'm a hopeless romantic. Because I'm a mother who wants to believe that there's someone out there who can be the man Ruby deserves.

*Hi,* I type. *My week's been okay. Busy. How about yours?*

I hit send and put the phone down. I finish my wine and pour another glass. I tell myself I'll only have one more. I tell myself I'll delete the app tomorrow. I tell myself a lot of things.

The next morning, I wake up with a headache and a text from Daniel.

*Busy is good. Keeps us out of trouble. What do you do for work?*

I stare at the text while I'm making coffee. Ruby is still asleep. The house is quiet. I should be getting ready for work, but I'm standing in the kitchen in my pyjamas, reading a message from a stranger.

*I work in admin,* I type. *Nothing exciting. What about you?*

*Teacher,* he replies. *Secondary school. History. It's exhausting but rewarding.*

I smile. A teacher. That's good. That's stable. That's someone who's good with kids.

*What do you teach?* I ask.

*Mostly modern history. WWI, WWII, Cold War. The kids think it's boring, but I try to make it interesting.*

*I bet you do.*

*Are you flirting with me?*

I blush. I actually blush, standing alone in my kitchen. *Maybe.*

*Good,* he says. *I like flirting.*

I put my phone down and pour myself a cup of coffee. My heart is beating a little faster than it should be. I'm being ridiculous. I'm being a teenager. But I can't help it. There's something about him. Something in the way he writes. Something that feels different.

Ruby comes downstairs, her hair a mess, her school uniform rumpled. She grunts at me and pours herself a bowl of cereal.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning."

"Sleep okay?"

"Fine."

I want to ask her about the twenty pounds again. I want to ask her if she's okay. I want to ask her if she hates me. But I don't. I just stand there, drinking my coffee, watching her eat her cereal, feeling the distance between us like a physical thing.

"Who were you texting?" she asks.

I freeze. "What?"

"Last night. I heard your phone buzzing. Who was it?"

"No one. Just a friend."

She looks at me. Her eyes are sharp. "A boyfriend?"

"No," I say. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"But you're trying to get one."

I don't know what to say. She's twelve, and she's already figured out my whole life. She's already seen through me.

"I'm just... meeting people," I say. "It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal," she says. "You're always on your phone. You're always going on dates. You're always looking for someone."

"Ruby..."

"I don't want a new dad," she says. "I want my old dad."

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. I want to tell her that I want her old dad too. I want to tell her that I didn't want any of this. I want to tell her that I'm doing this for her, that I'm trying to find someone who can be there for her, that I'm trying to build a family that isn't broken.

But I don't. Because she's twelve, and she doesn't want to hear it. Because she's angry, and she has every right to be. Because I'm her mother, and I'm supposed to have the answers, even when I don't.

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry."

She doesn't say anything. She just finishes her cereal and goes upstairs to get dressed. I stand in the kitchen, alone, feeling like I've failed at the one thing that matters.

That night, I go on a date with Daniel.

We meet at a pub in town. It's a nice pub, old and wood-panelled, with a fire in the corner and a menu that's mostly pies. He's already there when I arrive, sitting at a table near the window, reading a book. The same book the man on the bus was reading. The one about birds.

"You're reading about migration patterns," I say.

He looks up and smiles. "You noticed."

"I saw you on the bus. Yesterday."

His smile widens. "I remember. You said 'cool.'"

I groan. "I did. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was charming."

I sit down across from him. He's even better looking than his photos. Tall, with grey hair and kind eyes and a smile that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the room.

"So," he says, "you're a mum."

"I am. One daughter. Twelve."

"That's a tough age."

"It is."

"I've got two," he says. "A boy and a girl. They're older now. Nineteen and twenty-one. They live with their mum."

"How long have you been divorced?"

"Six years. You?"

"Three."

He nods. "It gets easier."

"Does it?"

"No," he says. "But you get better at pretending."

I laugh. It's the first real laugh I've had in weeks. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."

"I'm an honest person," he says. "It's one of my few virtues."

"What are the others?"

"I'm a good cook. I'm a good listener. And I'm very good at trivia nights."

"Trivia nights?"

"I'm not kidding. I'm a secret weapon. I know everything about 1980s pop music and obscure geography."

I laugh again. "That's a weird combination."

"I'm a weird guy."

We order drinks. We order food. We talk for hours. We talk about our kids, our exes, our jobs, our dreams. We talk about the things we've lost and the things we're still hoping to find. He tells me about his divorce, how his wife left him for someone else, how he spent a year feeling like his life was over. I tell him about mine, how my ex-husband moved to Manchester, how he's already got a new girlfriend, how he's already moved on like our marriage was nothing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That sounds hard."

"It is," I say. "But I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be used to it."

I look at him. He's looking at me with something that might be kindness. Something that might be understanding. Something that might be hope.

"I'm not looking for a replacement dad," I say. "I want to be clear about that. I'm not looking for someone to fix my life. I'm just looking for... someone."

"I know," he says. "I'm not looking for a replacement mum either. I'm just looking for someone too."

We sit in silence for a moment. The fire crackles. The pub hums with the sound of other people's conversations. I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. I feel seen.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Anything."

"Why did you message me? Out of all the women on that app, why me?"

He thinks about it. "Because you looked real," he says. "You didn't look like you were trying to be someone else. You just looked like you."

I don't know what to say. No one's ever said that to me before.

"That's a good answer," I say.

"It's the truth."

We finish our drinks. We pay the bill. We walk outside together, into the cold night air. The street is quiet. The stars are hidden behind clouds.

"I'd like to see you again," he says.

"I'd like that too."

He leans in and kisses me. It's a gentle kiss, a tentative kiss, a kiss that asks a question rather than demanding an answer. I kiss him back. For a moment, I forget about everything. I forget about the divorce, about the bills, about Ruby's anger, about the endless parade of failed dates. I just feel his lips on mine, and I feel alive.

When we pull apart, he's smiling. "So," he says. "Same time next week?"

"Same time next week."

I walk home feeling lighter than I have in months. The house is dark when I get there. Ruby is in bed. I check on her, quietly, standing in the doorway and watching her sleep. She looks peaceful. She looks young. She looks like the little girl I used to know, the one who used to crawl into my bed when she had nightmares, the one who used to tell me everything.

I close the door and go to my room. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I think about Daniel. I think about his smile, his laugh, his hands. I think about the way he looked at me, like I was worth looking at.

I think about Ruby. I think about what she said. *I don't want a new dad. I want my old dad.*

I don't know how to give her what she wants. I can't bring her father back. I can't undo the divorce. I can't make everything okay.

But I can try. I can keep going. I can keep hoping that somewhere, somehow, there's a way to build a life that works. A life that's not perfect, but that's good enough. A life where Ruby has someone who loves her, and I have someone who loves me, and we're not alone.

I fall asleep thinking about Daniel. I dream about him. I dream about a house with a garden, and a dog, and a kitchen full of laughter. I dream about Ruby smiling. I dream about being happy.

The next morning, I wake up to a text from him.

*Good morning. I had a wonderful time last night. I can't stop thinking about you.*

I smile. I can't stop thinking about him either.

*Me too,* I type. *When can I see you again?*

*How about Friday? I could cook for you. My place.*

*That sounds perfect.*

*Great. I'll send you the address. And I'll make sure to stock up on wine.*

*Good. You'll need it.*

*Why?*

*Because I'm a lot to handle.*

*I doubt that.*

*You'll see.*

I put my phone down and get out of bed. I feel different today. I feel lighter. I feel like something has shifted, like the world has tilted slightly on its axis and everything is new.

I go downstairs and make breakfast. Ruby comes down, still grumpy, still distant. But I don't let it bother me. I'm too happy to let it bother me.

"You're in a good mood," she says.

"I am."

"Why?"

"Just am."

She looks at me suspiciously. "Did you go on a date last night?"

"I did."

"With who?"

"His name is Daniel. He's a teacher."

She doesn't say anything. She just eats her cereal and stares at the table.

"He's nice," I say. "I think you'd like him."

"I don't want to like him."

"Ruby..."

"I don't want to meet him. I don't want to know about him. I don't want any of this."

She stands up and walks out of the room. I hear her stomp up the stairs. I hear her slam her bedroom door.

I sit at the kitchen table, alone, my breakfast getting cold. The happiness I felt is still there, but it's smaller now. It's mixed with something else. Something like guilt. Something like fear.

I want to be happy. I want to find love. I want to build a new life.

But I don't know how to do that without hurting my daughter. I don't know how to move forward without leaving her behind.

I finish my coffee. I wash the dishes. I get dressed for work. I go through the motions, like I do every day, like I've done since the divorce, like I'll do for the rest of my life.

But in the back of my mind, there's a voice. A small voice. A hopeful voice.

It says: *Maybe this time will be different.*

It says: *Maybe Daniel is the one.*

It says: *Maybe everything is going to be okay.*

I want to believe it. I want to believe it so badly.

But I've been wrong before. I've been wrong so many times.

And I'm scared. I'm scared of getting hurt again. I'm scared of hurting Ruby. I'm scared of opening my heart to someone new, only to have it broken again.

But I'm also scared of being alone. I'm scared of growing old without someone by my side. I'm scared of Ruby growing up without a father figure, without a positive male role model, without someone to show her that love doesn't have to end in pain.

So I keep going. I keep swiping. I keep dating. I keep hoping.

Because that's what mothers do. We keep going. We keep hoping. We keep trying to build a better life for our children, even when we don't know how.

Even when we're scared.

Even when we're tired.

Even when we're not sure if we can keep going.

We keep going.

Friday comes faster than I expected. I spend the week in a haze of anticipation and anxiety. I text Daniel every day. I think about him constantly. I imagine what it will be like to see him again, to be in his house, to eat his food, to kiss him again.

But I also worry. I worry about what Ruby will think. I worry about what will happen if this goes wrong. I worry about the fact that I'm falling for someone I barely know.

On Thursday night, I sit Ruby down.

"I'm going out tomorrow," I say. "To Daniel's house."

She doesn't look at me. She's watching TV, or pretending to.

"I want you to know that you can always tell me how you feel," I say. "If you're not comfortable with this, if you don't want me to date, you can say so."

She still doesn't look at me. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"It does matter. You matter."

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are red. She's been crying. She's been crying and I didn't even notice.

"I don't want you to go," she says. "I don't want you to leave me."

"I'm not leaving you. I'm just going on a date."

"Dad left," she says. "He left and he didn't come back. What if you leave too?"

The words break my heart. I reach out and pull her into a hug. She resists at first, then she melts into me, and I feel her shoulders shake as she cries.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

"But you're dating," she says. "You're looking for someone. What if you find someone and you forget about me?"

"I could never forget about you. You're my whole world."

"Then why are you looking for someone else?"

I don't know how to answer that. I don't know how to explain that I'm looking for someone for her, not instead of her. I don't know how to explain that I'm lonely, that I'm scared, that I want someone to share the burden with.

"Because I'm human," I say. "Because I'm tired of being alone. Because I want someone to love, and I want you to have someone who loves you too."

"I have you," she says.

"I know. But I can't be everything. I can't be a mum and a dad. I can't be everything you need."

"You're enough," she says. "You're enough for me."

I hold her tighter. I don't know if she's right. I don't know if I'm enough. But I know I have to try. I have to try to be enough, and I have to try to find someone who can be enough too.

"I love you," I say. "More than anything in the world."

"I love you too," she says.

We sit there for a long time, holding each other, crying together. And for a moment, I feel like maybe everything is going to be okay. Maybe Ruby and I are going to be okay. Maybe we can figure this out together.

But then I think about Daniel. I think about Friday. I think about what will happen if this works out, and what will happen if it doesn't.

And I realize that I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if Daniel is the one. I don't know if I'm ready for a new relationship. I don't know if Ruby will ever accept someone new.

All I know is that I have to try. I have to keep going. I have to keep hoping.

Because that's what mothers do.

Friday night, I stand outside Daniel's house. It's a small terraced house on a quiet street, with a blue door and a hanging basket full of flowers. It's the kind of house that looks like it's been loved. It's the kind of house that looks like a home.

I knock on the door. Daniel opens it. He's wearing a blue shirt and jeans, and he's smiling.

"You came," he says.

"I said I would."

"I know. But I wasn't sure."

"I'm here."

He steps aside and lets me in. The house smells like garlic and herbs and something sweet. There's music playing, something soft and jazzy. There are candles on the table.

"This is lovely," I say.

"I tried."

"You succeeded."

He takes my coat and hangs it up. He leads me into the kitchen, where he's been cooking. There's a pot on the stove and a chopping board full of vegetables.

"I hope you like pasta," he says.

"I love pasta."

"Good. Because that's all I know how to make."

I laugh. "You said you were a good cook."

"I said I was a good cook. I didn't say I was a versatile cook."

We sit down at the table. He pours me a glass of wine. He serves the pasta. It's delicious. It's the best thing I've eaten in months.

"So," he says, "how's your week been?"

"Busy," I say. "Ruby's been... difficult."

"Difficult how?"

"She doesn't want me to date. She doesn't want me to meet anyone. She's scared I'll leave her, like her dad did."

Daniel nods. "That's normal. Kids of divorce, they're always scared. They've seen one parent leave. They're terrified the other one will too."

"I know. But it doesn't make it easier."

"No. It doesn't."

We eat in silence for a moment. The music plays. The candles flicker. I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. I feel safe.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Anything."

"Are you looking for a relationship? A real one? Or are you just... looking for fun?"

He puts down his fork. He looks at me seriously. "I'm looking for something real," he says. "I'm forty-five years old. I've been divorced for six years. I've dated enough to know what I want. And what I want is someone to build a life with. Someone to share things with. Someone to grow old with."

I feel my heart swell. "That's what I want too."

"Good," he says. "Because I think we might have something here."

"I think so too."

We finish our meal. We clear the dishes. We sit on the sofa and talk. We talk about everything and nothing. We talk about our dreams and our fears. We talk about our kids, our exes, our hopes for the future.

And then he kisses me. It's a deeper kiss than the last one. It's a kiss that means something. It's a kiss that says, *I want you. I want this. I want us.*

I kiss him back. I want him too. I want this too. I want us too.

We go upstairs. We make love. It's gentle and passionate and everything I've been missing. It's connection. It's intimacy. It's the feeling of being wanted, of being desired, of being loved.

Afterwards, we lie in bed, tangled up in each other. He traces circles on my skin with his fingertips. I listen to his heartbeat.

"I could get used to this," I say.

"Me too."

"I'm scared," I admit.

"Of what?"

"Of getting hurt. Of hurting Ruby. Of everything going wrong."

He holds me tighter. "I'm scared too," he says. "But I think it's worth the risk. I think you're worth the risk."

I close my eyes. I let myself feel it. The warmth, the safety, the hope.

Maybe this time will be different.

Maybe Daniel is the one.

Maybe everything is going to be okay.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if Daniel and I will last. I don't know if Ruby will ever accept him. I don't know if I'm making the right choice.

But I know that I'm trying. I know that I'm doing my best. I know that I'm not giving up.

And for now, that's enough.

For now, I'm happy.

For now, I'm in love.

For now, I'm hopeful.

And that's more than I've had in a long time.

I fall asleep in Daniel's arms. I dream about the future. I dream about a house full of laughter, a garden full of flowers, a life full of love.

I dream about Ruby smiling. I dream about Daniel laughing. I dream about being happy.

And when I wake up, he's still there. He's still holding me. He's still mine.

For now, at least.

For now, that's enough.

I slip out of bed and go downstairs. I make coffee. I look out the window at the garden. It's small, but it's full of flowers. There's a bird feeder, and a bird is sitting on it, eating seeds.

I think about the man on the bus. The one with the book about migration. I think about how strange life is, how unpredictable, how full of surprises.

I think about Ruby. I think about what she said. *I don't want a new dad. I want my old dad.*

I don't know how to give her what she wants. But I know I can't give her what she wants. Her dad is gone. He's not coming back. He's got a new life, a new girlfriend, a new everything.

All I can do is try to build a new life for us. A life that's different, but still good. A life that's broken, but still whole.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Daniel appears, rumpled and sleepy, wearing nothing but his boxers.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning."

He comes over and wraps his arms around me. He kisses my neck. "You're beautiful," he says.

"I'm a mess."

"You're a beautiful mess."

I laugh. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Then you've been dating the wrong men."

"I know."

He pours himself a cup of coffee. We stand in the kitchen, drinking coffee, looking out at the garden. The bird is still there, eating seeds.

"I want to meet Ruby," he says.

I freeze. "What?"

"I want to meet her. I want to know her. I want to be part of her life."

"It's too soon."

"I know. But eventually. I want to be part of your life, and she's part of your life. So I want to meet her."

I don't know what to say. I want him to meet her. I want them to like each other. I want us to be a family.

But I'm scared. I'm scared she'll hate him. I'm scared she'll hate me. I'm scared everything will fall apart.

"Okay," I say. "Eventually. But not yet. She's not ready."

"I understand. I'll wait."

"Thank you."

He kisses me. "I'd wait forever for you."

I smile. "I hope you don't have to."

We finish our coffee. I get dressed. I kiss him goodbye. I walk home, feeling lighter than I have in years.

The house is quiet when I get there. Ruby is still asleep. I go upstairs and check on her. She's curled up in bed, her face peaceful, her breathing slow.

I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her sleep. I think about everything that's happened. I think about the divorce, the dating, the failures, the hopes. I think about Daniel. I think about the future.

I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if Daniel and I will last. I don't know if Ruby will ever accept him. I don't know if I'm making the right choice.

But I know that I'm trying. I know that I'm doing my best. I know that I'm not giving up.

And for now, that's enough.

For now, I'm happy.

For now, I'm in love.

For now, I'm hopeful.

And that's more than I've had in a long time.

Ruby stirs. She opens her eyes. She sees me sitting there.

"Mum?" she says.

"Hey," I say. "Good morning."

"What time is it?"

"Early. Go back to sleep."

She closes her eyes. Then she opens them again. "Did you have a good time?"

I smile. "I did."

"Good," she says. "I'm glad."

She closes her eyes and falls back asleep. I sit there for a moment longer, watching her, loving her, hoping that somehow, some way, everything is going to be okay.

Then I get up and go downstairs. I make breakfast. I wait for her to wake up. I wait for the day to begin.

I wait for the rest of my life to start.

And for the first time in a long time, I'm excited about what's to come.