The envelope was plain.
No name. Just her address, hand-written. Tight, sharp letters. Tense strokes.
She almost threw it out.
Then she recognized the handwriting.
Alex.
She hesitated. Stared at it like it might explode. Part of her wanted to rip it open. Part of her wanted to set it on fire.
But curiosity… it was cruel.
She opened it.
> "Ava,
I don't expect you to believe this.
I don't expect you to forgive me.
I'm not writing to beg for your love.
I just want you to know I finally see what I did to you.
Not what I lost. Not what I want back.
What I did.
You were sixteen. I was supposed to protect you, not ruin you.
Adrien was born into a war I started. You shielded him from it, even when I couldn't even shield you from me.
I'm in therapy now. Real therapy. Not for show. Not to win you back.
Just to understand why I ever thought love meant possession.
You are a mother now. A warrior. A light.
And all I ever did was try to snuff you out.
I won't come near you again.
Unless you ask.
This letter isn't a promise.
It's an apology.
That's all I have.
– Alex_
She didn't realize she was crying until the paper blurred in her hands.
She didn't cry because she missed him.
Or forgave him.
She cried because—after years of silence, excuses, gaslighting—he finally just said it. With no manipulation. No strings.
The sound of footsteps made her wipe her tears fast—but not fast enough.
Adrien stood at the doorway, holding a water bottle, hair damp from basketball. The 16-year-old golden boy—sharp jaw, tall frame, a presence that turned heads wherever he walked. But right now? He was just her kid. And he saw her.
He paused.
Then:
"You okay?"
She swallowed. Nodded. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Adrien walked in slowly, sat beside her on the edge of the couch. His eyes flicked to the crumpled paper in her lap. She didn't offer it, and he didn't ask.
But he knew.
A beat passed.
Then his voice—lower, softer—cut through the quiet.
"Was it from him?"
She didn't lie. Just nodded.
Adrien stared ahead, jaw tight.
"He's still trying?"
"No," she whispered. "Not this time. This was… different."
Adrien didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, it was like the boy in him had finally found the words the man in him had been carrying.
"I don't hate him," he said quietly. "But I hate what he did to you."
Ava blinked, tears threatening again.
Adrien reached forward and gently took the letter from her lap. Folded it neatly. And handed it back like something precious, but heavy.
"I'm not gonna pretend to understand what you went through," he said. "But if one day you wanna tell me… everything… I'll listen."
She couldn't speak.
So she leaned forward and pulled her son into a hug. Tight. Fierce. The kind that told the world she had survived for this—this boy, this warmth, this moment.
And Adrien hugged her back.
They stayed like that for a long, long time.
Because love doesn't always come from romance.
Sometimes it's born from resilience.