The rustle of paper broke the heavy quiet as Kinuthia entered the hospital room, holding a folded document in his hand- Asta's discharge notification.
"It's time," he announced gently, though his voice carried the weight of emotional exhaustion.
Sophie, seated at Asta's bedside, looked down as the little boy stirred restlessly against her chest. His skin was still pale, and his tiny arms trembled with weakness. When Kinuthia reached for him, Asta whimpered and clung tighter to Sophie's neck.
"Mummy..." he whispered, his voice cracked and faint. "Nest me...I feel dizzy..."
Sophie's heart twisted. She gathered him closer, pressing his damp forehead to her collarbone. "I've got you, baby...Mummy's here," she murmured, cradling him with an ache she didn't speak aloud. Her fingers brushed rhythmically along his back, steady as a mother's heartbeat.
Meanwhile, Annette and Kinuthia moved around the room, gathering Asta's belongings into a small hospital bag. His worn-out socks, a stuffed cloth elephant, an unopened juice box...all ordinary items that suddenly felt heavy with meaning.
Then it happened-both of them reached for the same object at once: Asta's bottle of milk.
Their hands collided.
Warm skin touched warm skin. Fingers froze mid-grasp.
They both paused.
The moment snapped time in half-past and presence tightening around them. Kinuthia's hand twitched slightly, but he didn't pull away. Neither did she. For a heartbeat, Annette's eyes met his, unreadable and conflicted, somewhere between memory and boundary.
A quiet cleared her throat. They turned.
Sophie stood in the corner with Asta leaning on her shoulder, eyes sharp despite the tired weight beneath them. Her gaze-cool, measuring-moved from the joined hands to their eyes, then back again.
No words were spoken.
But tension crept in like a fog, curling around their feet, rising steadily toward the heart.
The hospital corridors echoed with their slow steps-Sophie walking ahead, gently cradling Asta against her, his small arms looped loosely around her neck. Annette and Kinuthia followed in silence, their footsteps falling into an uneasy rhythm behind her. The fluorescent lights above cast pale shadows, but the tension between them was impossible to dim.
When they finally stepped into the crisp evening air and reached the parking lot, Sophie paused.
She glanced between the two cars-Annette's sleek navy coupe and Kinuthia's muted grey SUV, both parked just feet apart. Turning slightly, she stopped mid-stride, shifting Asta gently on her hip.
Her voice cut through the still air. "So... which car are we taking?"
Her eyes flicked from one vehicle to the other, then to Kinuthia, and lastly, to Annette-hovering on the edge of challenge, if not accusation.
Before either adult could respond, Asta suddenly perked up, lifting his head from Sophie's shoulder. His fever had dulled his brightness, but now, a flicker of excitement returned to his wide eyes.
"That one!" he cried out, pointing an eager, trembling finger toward Annette's car. "That blue one! It's beautiful-I want to go in that!"
The moment stiffened.
Kinuthia's posture faltered. His eyes darted toward the car, then toward Sophie, then finally toward Sophie-his expression strained, as if caught in a trap he didn't see coming.
Annette, who had remained cool and reserved, turned to him. A slow, amused smile curled across her lips, the kind that was half-mocking, half-knowing. She didn't speak-but her eyes said everything:
"Looks like your son has taste."
The silent exchange didn't go unnoticed. Sophie shifted her weight, tightening her hold on Asta. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly.
Asta squirmed with a tired giggle, still pointing enthusiastically. "Please, can we go in that one?"
The air, thick with adult tension, now hung between the choice of a child and the pride of parents, former lovers, and something else altogether more complicated.
Sophie approached Annette's car with Asta nestled against her chest, his arms curled loosely around her neck. She stood by the rear door, expecting to be let in. Annette arrived a moment later, her heels clicking softly against the pavement, and without a word, she pointed the remote key fob toward the vehicle. A soft beep-beep responded as the doors unlocked.
But instead of opening the back door for her, Annette simply nodded toward the front passenger seat, silently instructing Sophie to sit there.
There was a flicker in Sophie's eyes-a trace of hesitation, maybe annoyance- but she said nothing. She shifted Asta in her arms, walked around to the front passenger side, and opened the door.
As she leaned in to place Asta securely on her lap, her gaze fell on something unexpected-a bouquet of flowers, faded and slightly bruised, resting on the seat. The petals looked like they had once been vibrant, now dulled with time and nrglect.
Before she could speak, Annette appeared beside her, swiftly snatching the flowers without meeting her gaze. With an expressionless face, she turned, walked to the parking lot's trash bin, and tossed the bouquet in with an effortless flick. The sound of it landing in the metal bin rang louder than expected.
Sophie blinked.
Annette returned, opened the back door, and placed Asta's hospital bag neatly inside. She then walked around the car to the driver's seat.
Before she could start the engine, Kinuthia appeared at the front passenger side window, where Sophie now sat with Asta drowsy in her arms. The window was rolled halfway down.
"Hey, champ," Kinuthia said gently, brushing his fingers against Asta's cheek, then ruffling his curls. "You'll feel better soon, okay?" He smiled, though his eyes were heavy.
He leaned in and gave Asta a soft kiss on the forehead.
Then, his gaze shifted to Sophie. "Keep me updated, alright?" he said, his voice dipping into something more personal.
Without waiting for a cue, he leaned in further and pressed a kiss to Sophie's cheek-subtle, but intimate.
The air tightened.
From the driver's seat, Annette cleared her throat-sharply.
Kinuthia turned.
She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. One look from her, eyes narrowed and jaw set, said enough.
Kinuthia straightened and took a step back, trying to recover a thread of neutrality. He glanced at her through the open driver's window. "Take care of them," he said.
Annette stared ahead for a moment, then replied in a tone cold and clipped: "I always do."
She started the engine.
No one spoke.
But as they pulled out of the hospital lot, It was clear-the tension wasn't left behind. It was right there in the car, buckled in next to every unspoken truth.
The car rolled forward in uneasy silence, the soft hum of the engine the only sound filling the confined space. Sophie sat stiffly in the passenger seat, Asta nestled in her lap, his breathing still slightly shallow but calm. Annette kept her eyes on the road, her grip on the steering wheel firm-too firm.
The tension inside the car was palpable, thick like the clouds brooding on the horizon.
In an attempt to slice through the oppressive quiet, Annette reached over to the glove compartment. She popped it open and retrieved a sachet of chocolate-covered malt balls, the foil crinkling softly in her hand. With a glance at the rearview mirror, she extended the open packet toward the little boy.
"Would you like some, sweetheart?" she offered, her voice almost too gentle.
Asta blinked up at her, wide-eyed. There was a beat of surprise, then his little face scrunched into a thoughtful frown.
"But...Auntie," he said, titling his head, "I don't eat chocolates."
Annette blinked.
"Mummy said it's bad for my teeth," Asta continued solemnly, with the conviction only a three-year-old could carry. "Don't you know that? You shouldn't eat chocolates either." He pouted slightly, like he was genuinely concerned for her dental health.
Sophie tried to suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, casting a sidelong glance out of the window.
Annette's hand hovered mid-air, still holding the sachet. She let out a dry chuckle, subdued and stiff, before quietly tucking the chocolate back into the compartment and shutting it with a dull click.
"Well," she murmured under her breath, "looks like someone's is raised by the book."
No one replied.
The silence returned-but now, it was colored with something different. Humiliation. Resentment. And a child's unfiltered honesty that neither woman was quite ready for.
The hum of the road had fallen into an uneasy rhythm, and for a long time, neither woman spoke.
Asta had drifted into a light sleep on Sophie's lap, his small fingers curled around the edge of her blouse. His peaceful breathing filled the space like a metronome, slow and even.
Sophie kept her gaze fixed out of the window, watching the blur of passing trees. But the image of those wilted flowers still clung to her mind like a splinter.
She finally broke the silence, her voice soft but edged with a quiet dare.
"Those flowers," she began, not looking at Annette, "they didn't look like they'd been forgotten by accident."
Annette didn't respond immediately. Her eyes remained on the road, unfazed.
Sophie pressed on, a little bolder now. "I mean...if the person who gave them to you saw how you left them-bent, dried, abandoned on the seat like yesterday's mail-then tossed in the trash without a blink..." She turned her head slightly, enough to glance at Annette's profile. "I imagine he'd be heartbroken."
Annette let out a breath that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh-dry, brittle, and indifferent.
"He probably would," she replied, finally. "But only if he cared more about the bouquet than the person who received it."
Sophie blinked, surprised by the weight of that reply.
Annette continued, her tone still calm, but now with a sharpened undertone. "Flowers don't mean much when they're given too late...or out of guilt. They're just decoration then."
The silence that followed was louder than before.
Sophie shifted Asta gently, as if the movement would distract her from the sting in Annette's words.
And though she didn't say it aloud, something settled in her chest like cold stone: She didn't know is she hated Annette more for the truth she spoke, or for the fact that it hit too close to home.