I didn’t hear from Daniel again until almost a year later.
I knew kicking him out of the house would build an even deeper rift between us, but I barely saw him before, anyway.
It was early October when he knocked on my door. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was thinner, tired, and with lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. Lily and Jamie were with him, their backpacks slung over their small shoulders.
He looked nervous, holding his hands in front of him like a boy caught doing something wrong.
“Can we come in?” he asked.
I nodded and stepped aside.
The kids ran to the kitchen as they remembered it, climbing onto the stools their father used to sit on when I baked cookies with him years ago. I poured each of them a glass of apple juice and set out a plate of crackers.
A woman handing over juice to a child | Source: Pexels
Daniel stayed by the door, looking like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be here.
“She left,” he said quietly.
I turned. “Mary?”
He nodded. “Filed for divorce three months ago. Took everything. The car, the money, the furniture.”
I sat down across from him at the table.
“She’s living with someone else now,” he added, his voice cracking. “I tried to hold it together for the kids. I kept working overtime, tried to pick up extra shifts, but I couldn’t make it work. We’ve been sleeping in my friend’s basement for two weeks. I didn’t know where else to go.”
I studied him, really looked at him for the first time in years. I saw the pain in his eyes, but more than that — I saw regret.
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