She crouched lower, meeting their eyes, exaggerating every move to feed their energy, and soon they were all three stomping together, the music vibrating through the floor beneath them. The fracture that had divided the household seemed to soften in those moments, as if the sound itself had the power to knit the pieces back together. Aaliyah found herself smiling so hard her cheeks ached, her heart bursting with gratitude that the boys had chosen her again, even after the days of silence.
William had been in his office upstairs, telling himself he would not interfere, that he would let the evening pass like all the others. But then he heard it, faint laughter, clapping, the unmistakable sound of life spilling back into the house. Against his better judgment, his body moved before his mind could stop him.
He descended the stairs slowly, each step tightening the knot in his chest, until he reached the kitchen doorway. The sight before him stole his breath. Noah and Ethan stomped in unison, their eyes shining, while Aaliyah spun in their midst like a beacon of joy.
For an instant, William felt the sharp pang of guilt again. But then something extraordinary happened. Both boys turned toward him, their little hands rising in unsteady gestures, signing clumsily but clearly, Dance, Papa.
William’s heart lurched so violently he thought his knees might give out. His sons had never invited him in like this, never looked at him with such open expectation. For a moment, panic gripped him.
What if he couldn’t do it? What if he looked foolish, clumsy, incapable? But their hands kept signing, their eyes locked on him, waiting. Aaliyah turned to, her face soft, silently urging him forward without a word. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of years of grief pressing down, but then he stepped into the room.
He raised his arms, awkward and unsure, and swayed in rhythm with them. His movements were far from graceful, but the boys’ reaction erased every doubt. They squealed with delight, stomping harder, their laughter echoing through the kitchen until William could no longer hold himself back.
He crouched low, mimicking their motions, spinning with them, letting himself fall into the silliness of the moment. For the first time, he wasn’t the billionaire or the widower or the man defined by failure. He was simply Papa.
His knees weakened, but for the first time he obeys. Not the billionaire, not the broken widower, just a father swaying awkwardly with his sons. The fracture begins to heal in rhythm and laughter.
Sleep had become a stranger to William more nights than he cared to count, but this night felt particularly restless. Even after the dance in the kitchen, even after the warmth of laughter and small miraculous signs from his sons, something inside him remained unsettled, unfinished. Hours after the boys had been tucked in and Alia had quietly retired to her room, he wandered into his study, drawn not by obligation but by something deeper, older.
The desk stood in quiet command of the room, untouched for days. He sat heavily, fingertips grazing the surface as memories crowded his chest. Slowly he reached for the drawer he hadn’t opened in over three years.
It resisted slightly, like it too didn’t want to remember, but he opened it. Inside lay a single envelope, yellowed at the edges, sealed but never mailed. He knew exactly what it was, had memorized every word, though he hadn’t dared to re-read it since the day he wrote it.
A letter to Emily, scrawled two weeks after her death, in a moment of despair, when the silence in the nursery felt unbearable and his sons seemed like strangers who might never know him, love him, or forgive him for surviving when she didn’t. He held the letter for a long time before standing. His legs carried him, almost without his permission, down the hall toward Alia’s room.
He hesitated at her door, letter in hand, his breath shallow with uncertainty. Knocking gently, he waited. Moments later she opened the door in a simple shirt and sweatpants, her eyes widening at the sight of him, unshaven, exhausted, holding something like a confession between his fingers.
I wrote this, he said, voice hoarse, a long time ago, for Emily. I never sent it. She nodded once, stepping aside to let him in.
No questions, just space. He handed her the envelope, watching as she sat on the edge of her bed and carefully opened the seal. Her eyes scanned the page slowly, the weight of his words settling into the quiet.
She didn’t rush. And William, standing nearby, felt naked under her silence. He turned slightly, unable to watch her reaction, but unwilling to leave.
He had never shown the letter to anyone. It was the only time he had truly said what he feared most, that he didn’t know how to be a father without Emily, that he was terrified he would always fail their children. When she finished reading, Alia’s hands trembled as she folded the letter carefully, holding it between her palms like something sacred.
She looked up at him, her voice soft but certain. She would have been proud of you, William. He swallowed hard, not ready to believe it.
But she continued, not for the empire you’ve built, not for the money. She would have been proud because you’re still here. You stayed.
You tried. You’re trying. He lowered his head, the emotion in her words crashing into the vulnerable place the letter had opened.
She rose and stepped closer, placing the letter gently back in his hand. You didn’t give up on them, or on yourself. His fingers curled around the envelope, clutching it like it might fall apart if he let go.
Then she reached out, cupping the side of his face, not romantically but tenderly, with a reverence that startled him. He leaned into it before he could stop himself, closing his eyes. You were never supposed to be enough alone, she whispered.
No one is. And in that moment he let her see the pain he had kept so expertly buried. Neither of them spoke for a while after that.
She sat beside him on the bed, close but not touching, their presence enough to fill the space where words would have only cluttered the truth. He told her about the night he wrote the letter, how Ethan had cried for hours, and William had sat outside the nursery door, paralyzed. How Noah wouldn’t let him hold him.
How he had nearly called Emily’s parents to ask them to take the boys, convinced they would be better off without him. He spoke with halting honesty, and Aaliyah listened without interruption, her eyes never leaving his face. When he paused, afraid of her judgment, she only nodded and murmured, I’m so sorry you went through that alone.
No one had ever said that to him. Not his parents. Not his therapist.
No one. And for some reason, hearing it from her made something inside him loosen. He didn’t cry, not yet, but his breath came shaky, like his body wasn’t sure how to handle being understood so deeply without being pitied.
In her gaze he didn’t see condemnation or pity, he saw recognition. She had carried grief too in her own ways, and somehow, without ever saying it outright, they met in that shared ache. As he stood to leave, the hour impossibly late now, he looked down at the letter in his hand, and then back at her…
