My Ex Begged Outside Our Daughter's Preschool

Three days later, it rained.

Not the soft drizzle Seattle wore like a second skin. This was the kind of rain that hit the pavement hard and sent people scrambling for cover. I'd picked up Alaia early from preschool because her teacher called about a stomach ache that turned out to be strategic—she wanted to go to the bookstore.

We ended up at the café near my studio instead. The one with the good hot chocolate and the window seats. Alaia sat across from me with her coloring book spread out like a map. I had my paperback open. The rain drummed against the glass.

I was three pages into a chapter when I felt it. That specific pressure of being watched.

I looked up.

Soren stood just inside the door, shaking rain off an umbrella. Black coat. Hair wet at the edges. He scanned the room like he was looking for someone.

His eyes found me.

I went back to my book.

I heard his footsteps. Steady. Deliberate. The scrape of a chair.

"Excuse me," he said. "Is this seat taken?"

His voice was exactly the same. Smooth. Practiced. The kind of voice that had talked me into things I shouldn't have believed.

I didn't look up. "Yes."

"I don't see anyone—"

"My mommy doesn't talk to people she doesn't like."

Alaia's voice cut through the café like a bell. Clear. Loud. Certain.

The table next to us went quiet. The barista paused mid-pour. I felt the entire room's attention shift.

I turned a page.

Soren stood there. I could see him in my peripheral vision. Frozen. His hand still on the back of the chair.

Alaia put down her purple crayon and looked at him. Her face was solemn. Assessing. She had Raphael's eyes—dark and direct—and right now they were fixed on Soren like he was a puzzle she'd already solved.

"You should go sit somewhere else," she said.

I kept my eyes on the page. The words blurred slightly. I blinked and they sharpened again.

Soren pulled out the chair. Sat down.

The scrape of wood on tile was very loud.

"Shiloh," he said quietly. "Please. Just—"

"Mommy." Alaia's voice was smaller now. Uncertain. "He's still here."

I closed my book. Set it on the table. Looked at Soren for the first time.

His face was thinner than I remembered. There were shadows under his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn't slept well in a long time.

Good.

"You're sitting at my daughter's table," I said. "Without being invited. That's called intrusion."

His jaw tightened. "I just want to talk."

"I don't."

"Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"You're not entitled to five minutes of my time." I kept my voice level. Calm. The same tone I used when explaining to Alaia why we don't touch hot stoves. "You're not entitled to five seconds."

"I know what I did—"

"Then you know why this conversation is over."

I stood. Gathered Alaia's crayons into the box. Folded her coloring book. She climbed down from her chair and pressed against my side.

Soren stood too. "Please. I just—I need you to know—"

"I don't care what you need."

The words came out flat. Final. I bent and lifted Alaia onto my hip. She wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.

"Shiloh—"

I walked past him. Out the door. Into the rain.

I didn't have an umbrella. The water soaked through my jacket in seconds. Alaia made a small sound of protest. I held her closer.

Behind me, I heard the café door open.

"Shiloh, wait—"

I kept walking. My car was parked half a block down. I clicked the key fob. The lights flashed.

I buckled Alaia into her seat. Her hair was damp. Her eyes were wide.

"Mommy, who was that man?"

"No one, baby."

"He made you sad."

"I'm not sad." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "I'm just wet."

She frowned. "He made your face go cold. Like at the cemetery."

I kissed her forehead. "You're very smart, you know that?"

"I know," she said. Then: "Can we still go to the bookstore?"

I smiled. "Yeah. We can still go to the bookstore."

---

Over the next week, I saw him four more times.

Once near the preschool. Standing across the street. Not approaching. Just there.

Once at the farmers market on Saturday morning. Two stalls down. Pretending to examine apples.

Once outside my studio. Sitting on the bench across the street. He didn't try to come in. He just sat.

Once at the coffee shop on the corner. Different coffee shop. Same routine.

I didn't acknowledge him. I adjusted my routes. I briefed Dominic, my studio assistant, and told him to call me if anyone unfamiliar tried to enter the building.

"Should I call the cops?" Dominic asked. He was twenty-three and took his job very seriously.

"Not yet," I said. "Just keep the doors locked."

I didn't tell Raphael.

Not because I was protecting Soren. Not because I was afraid of Raphael's reaction.

Because Soren didn't warrant the energy of a conversation.

He was weather. Unpleasant. Temporary.

Eventually, he would pass.