Chapter 19 Make-up The Regret

• Tarquin couldn’t shake the weight in his chest. Every time he replayed those years — the missed birthdays, the first words he never heard, the first steps he never saw — the regret carved deeper into him, like a slow ache that never quite faded. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could have let time slip so far away from them haunted him. But he wasn’t going to waste another moment. He had made up his mind: he would be there for Ada, and for their daughter. No more excuses. No more distance. He needed to rebuild what had been broken, even if it felt fragile and uncertain.
• He began visiting Pandora every day, finding reasons to drop by — whether it was at the park where she loved to chase butterflies, outside their apartment building when she came home from kindergarten, or at the little school where Ada had enrolled her. Each visit brought him a strange mix of emotions swirling within — joy at catching glimpses of his daughter’s bright smile and innocent laughter, and sorrow at the silent memories of all the moments lost to absence.
• Today, Tarquin found himself standing outside the small, cheerful kindergarten building bathed in soft afternoon light. Through the glass doors, he spotted Ada. She was crouched beside Pandora, gently adjusting the straps on her tiny backpack, her soft voice full of encouragement and care. The way Ada smiled at their daughter—tender, patient—stirred something deep inside Tarquin’s heart, a mixture of hope and a sharp pang of regret.