PART 6 — WHAT HAPPENED AFTER EUROPE
“I need a favor,” Celeste said.
I nearly drove into a ditch.
“You understand what that sentence does to me now.”
“It isn’t childcare.”
“Continue.”
A pipe had burst in the apartment above hers.
Part of her ceiling and kitchen were damaged, and the unit would be unlivable for two nights.
She asked whether she could stay with me.
Her.
Not five children.
Not seven suitcases.
Two nights.
I agreed with conditions: no extensions, no rearranging my kitchen, no criticizing my work schedule, and absolutely no luxury wellness consultants.
“Trent lives in Arizona now.”
“Good for Arizona.”
Celeste arrived Friday with one suitcase.
I counted.
One.
Personal growth.
The first evening was awkward.
The second became something I never expected.
We actually talked.
Celeste admitted she had gone too far with Daniel.
Not immediately.
Not during Europe.
Not even during the first hearings.
But eventually.
“Once I started keeping the kids away,” she said, staring into her coffee, “changing course meant admitting I had exaggerated things. Then every time I doubled down, I had more to defend.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“Probably more exhausting for Daniel.”
She looked at me.
“I know.”
She admitted Dad’s support had made it easier.
Whenever someone challenged her, she went to him, and he reassured her that she was justified.
“I think he thought he was helping.”
“He did.”
“He wasn’t.”
“No.”
She was quiet for a while.
“I still think you should’ve called me before taking them to Daniel.”
“You were boarding a plane.”
“You could’ve called.”
“And what would you have done?”
She considered it.
“Probably screamed.”
“Exactly.”
A small smile appeared.
“I hate that ‘sure’ thing you do now.”
“Sure.”
“See?”
That was not reconciliation in a movie sense.
We did not hug beside a window while emotional music played.
We still argued.
She still believed my living room needed more
