Page 88 of The Art of Ruin

“She trusts you,” she says after a moment, softer now.

“As she should. I’d never lie to her or abuse her trust.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t think you ever would. You love her.”

“Yes.” That doesn’t cover what I feel for my daughter. I’d die for her, kill for her, burn the world down for her, but I don’t say those things.

“She feels safe with you,” Casey adds, almost like she’s saying it more to herself than to me.

“That’s non-negotiable. A child needs to feel safe more than they need to feel loved,” I reply.

Something shifts in her expression at that.

Not surprise.

Not quite disapproval.

Just… recognition.

She leans back again, adjusting the blanket slightly, her movements still careful but less guarded than before. “I thinkthat’s why she listens to you,” she says. “Not because you expect it. Because she wants to.”

I don’t answer.

Because that isn’t something I’ve ever framed in those terms.

Later,when I bring her more tea without being asked, she doesn’t argue. When I adjust the blanket where it’s slipped too far down, she doesn’t comment, just shifts slightly to make it easier.

And when the room settles into that same quiet again, the kind that sits comfortably—she doesn’t tell me to leave.

I don’t ask if she wants me to because I don’t want the answer, and the thought of leaving her doesn’t sit well with me.

The understanding sits there without needing to be acknowledged.

Something has changed, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

14.Casey

When I wakethe following morning, it’s not the pain that hits me first. It’s the quietness. For a second, I just lie there blinking at the ceiling, trying to figure out what’s different, and then it clicks—the house, or at least this part of it, feels still in a way it hasn’t for the past couple of days. No movement just beyond the walls, no low murmur of voices, no sense of someone hovering nearby even when I couldn’t see him.

Which probably means he’s either given me space… or he’s close enough that he doesn’t think he needs to check every five minutes anymore.

The thought sits somewhere between relief and something else I don’t bother naming, because I don’t have the energy to unpack it before I’ve even moved. Adriano, taking care of me through this flare, isn’t something I saw coming.

I stay where I am for a moment longer, letting my body catch up, doing that automatic scan I’ve gotten far too used to—how bad is it? What’s going to protest first? What can I get away with before I regret it?

It’s still there, that dull pain. It feels like it always is even when it isn’t.

But it’s… quieter, maybe. Less sharp, less immediate, like it’s retreated just enough that I don’t feel I’m bracing against it constantly. There’s still that heavy, dragging awareness low in my abdomen, the kind that makes me conscious of every shift, every stretch, but it’s not stopping me. And right now, that feels like a win.

Living with this is a rollercoaster, and even though I had excision surgery five years ago, and the IUD has been life-changing, I still get the occasional flare. It comes mostly when I have a surprise period, which is what happened this time, but at least I don’t spend most days in bed in agony.

“Okay,” I murmur, more to test my voice than anything else, pushing myself up slowly, waiting for that familiar pull.

It comes, but it doesn’t spike.

That’s enough for me to know I can get up and start living again. I just have to do it slowly and with more care than usual.

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my thighs for a second, just breathing, and the thought comes back again, stronger this time, pushing past the lingering exhaustion.