“I don’t need your approval, Blake.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening.

We spent the next two hours in suffocating silence.

Every time his shoulder brushed mine, a shock of electricity seemed to pass between us.

I stared at the safety instruction card until the words blurred.

When the wheels finally touched down at O’Hare International Airport, I unbuckled my belt before the sign even turned off.

I grabbed my canvas tote bag from the floor.

“Have a good life, Blake,” I said, stepping past him into the aisle.

“Emma, wait,” he called out.

I did not wait.

I pushed through the crowded aisle, desperate for the cold Chicago air.

I walked quickly down the jet bridge and into the bustling terminal.

My boots clicked rapidly against the tiled floor as I headed toward the exit.

I could hear heavy footsteps behind me, keeping pace.

I glanced back and saw Blake’s tall figure weaving through the crowd of travelers.

“Emma, we need to talk,” he called out, his voice closer now.

“We have nothing to say to each other,” I said, walking faster.

“Please,” he said, reaching out and gently catching my elbow near the baggage claim.

His touch was warm, and I pulled my arm back as if I had been burned.

“Let go of me, Blake,” I hissed. “You made it very clear you wanted me out of your life four years ago.”

“Emma!” a high-pitched voice squealed from the crowd.

“Mommy!” another voice cheered.

My heart leaped as three small bodies broke through the barrier near the security exit.

They ran toward me in a chaotic, joyful pack.

Leo, Noah, and Toby.

My four-year-old triplet sons.

They all wore matching bright yellow raincoats.

I knelt down, catching them in my arms as they collided with me.

“Hey, my sweet boys,” I whispered, kissing their wet cheeks.