You know that feeling, right? That ache in your chest that’s so specific, so tied to a certain time, a certain smell, you can practically taste it. For me, it’s the lingering scent of damp winter air mixed with the sweet, deep warmth of hot cocoa. It’s the chill of a late-night breeze on my skin, followed by a sudden, encompassing warmth. It all started with curfew, and the desperate craving for something more.
My house was quiet. Too quiet. My parents lived separate lives under the same roof, a silent agreement of shared discomfort. I was an afterthought, a ghost in their strained domestic theatre. So, I sought warmth elsewhere. And I found it. In him.
He was older, not by much, but enough to feel like an adult, like he understood things I never could. He had this quiet way about him, a gentle intensity that pulled me in. We met in secret, under the cover of darkness, after my eleven o’clock curfew. The irony wasn’t lost on me. While other kids snuck out for parties, for cheap thrills, I snuck out for conversation, for connection, for someone to see me.
Marina and Matt LeBlanc photographed during their recent outing in Camarillo, California, from a post dated October 18, 2025. | Source: Instagram/pagesix
Our spot was an old, abandoned gazebo in the park, just a few blocks from my house. It was decrepit, paint peeling, but under the weak glow of a distant streetlamp, it felt like our kingdom. Every night, without fail, he’d be there. And every night, he’d have two steaming mugs of hot cocoa.
God, that cocoa. It wasn’t just any cocoa. He made it perfectly, thick and rich, with just a hint of cinnamon. It became our ritual. The cold bite of the night air, the hushed whispers, the shared warmth of the mugs between our gloved hands. It was comfort. It was safety. It was love, or at least, what I thought love was. He’d listen to me talk about my day, about the suffocating silence at home, about my dreams of a life far away from here. He never judged. He just listened, his eyes gentle, his smile a beacon in the dark.
“You deserve more,” he’d always say, his voice low, a rumbling warmth against the cold. “A full life. A second chance at happiness.” I believed him. I clung to those words like a lifeline. He was my second chance. My escape.
The sneaking out grew bolder. The risk, more thrilling. My heart would pound like a drum solo against my ribs as I tiptoed past my parents’ closed bedroom doors, the floorboards creaking like old bones. But the thought of his smile, the promise of that cocoa, propelled me forward. I was desperate for that warmth, that understanding. I was desperate for him.
One night, the air was particularly frigid, the kind that steals your breath. My parents had had one of their silent arguments, the kind where the air crackled with unspoken bitterness. I slipped out feeling more alone than ever, a raw nerve exposed to the elements. When I got to the gazebo, he was already there, two mugs steaming. But tonight, his expression was different. More serious. Hopeful.
Marina and Matt LeBlanc photographed during their recent outing in Camarillo, California, from a post dated October 18, 2025. | Source: Instagram/pagesix
He took my hands, the ceramic mugs momentarily forgotten. His grip was firm, reassuring. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, and my stomach plummeted. My heart fractured. He’s leaving me. This is it.
But then he smiled, a breathtaking, genuine smile. “I can’t do this in secret anymore. Not with you. I want a real life, a real chance. For us.”
He paused, searching my eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. We can leave. Go somewhere new. Start over. Together.”
My breath hitched. Leave? Run away? It was insane. It was terrifying. It was everything I had ever secretly wished for. A chance. A second chance. “Are you serious?” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.
“Absolutely,” he affirmed, squeezing my hands. “Tonight. Midnight. My car will be packed. Just you and me. No more curfews. No more secrets. Just a real life.”
My mind reeled. Midnight. That was just an hour away. My entire life, condensed into sixty minutes. The fear was immense, a cold dread in my gut. But the hope, the dizzying, exhilarating hope, was stronger. This was it. My escape. My future. My second chance.
I nodded, unable to speak, the tears finally falling. He wiped them away with his thumb. “Go,” he urged, his voice filled with urgency and excitement. “Get what you need. Meet me back here. Midnight.”
I ran home, my feet barely touching the frozen ground. My bag was already packed – a small duffel I’d hidden under my bed for months, filled with essentials, a desperate fantasy. I grabbed it, my heart hammering against my ribs. I tiptoed through the house one last time, a silent goodbye to the ghosts of my childhood. No one stirred. I made it out, a phantom in the night.
Matt and Marina LeBlanc with Shakira and a guest during “Shakira: Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran World Tour” on August 4, 2025, in Inglewood, California. | Source: Getty Images
The walk back to the gazebo felt like an eternity. Every shadow was a parent, every distant siren, a police car. But I kept going. Midnight. Second chance. Freedom.
I reached our spot. He was there. My relief was so profound, it almost buckled my knees. He stood next to his car, engine running, the trunk slightly ajar. I started to run towards him, a jubilant cry catching in my throat.
Then I saw her.
She emerged from the shadows of the gazebo, clutching a familiar mug. My mother.
My blood ran cold. My mind screamed. ALL CAPS.
MY MOTHER. WHAT WAS SHE DOING HERE?
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t yelling. She looked… calm. And tired. And then I saw her eyes. Filled with an affection I’d rarely, if ever, seen directed at me. But it wasn’t directed at me. It was for him.
He went to her, gently taking the cocoa mug from her hand. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. MY MOTH ER LEANED INTO HIS EMBRACE. He kissed the top of her head, a tender, intimate gesture that stole the air from my lungs.
No. It can’t be.
My mother looked up at him, a soft, grateful smile on her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for this… for us. For our second chance.”
Then he turned, catching my eye. His smile faltered. His expression was no longer gentle. It was… resigned. Pained.
He hadn’t been packing the car for me. He had been packing it for my mother.
Marina LeBlanc from a post dated October 18, 2025. | Source: Instagram/pagesix
The cocoa. The secret meetings. The kind words. The “second chance.” It was never for me. Not really. I had been a convenient alibi. A way to get close to her. A cover story. A child, too desperate for connection to question the truth.
I stood there, frozen, the duffel bag suddenly impossibly heavy in my hand. The biting cold returned, but this time, no amount of cocoa, no amount of warmth, could ever touch the absolute, bone-deep chill that had settled in my soul. The second chance wasn’t mine. It was theirs. And I was just the curfew he used to get it.
