I really thought the worst was behind us. The papers were signed, the shouting had faded into the kind of silence you can sleep in, and the kids were finally laughing without flinching. I’d painted their room a sunshine yellow, strung up paper stars, and let Oliver and Mia choose stickers for the closet door. We were rebuilding. We were okay.
Saturday morning smelled like butter and vanilla. Oliver was five and very serious about putting forks in the right place; Mia, three, was humming and swinging her legs, already sticky with syrup. I was flipping pancakes when someone knocked—a hard, flat rap that made my stomach drop before I even looked.
It was Jake.
“What do you want?” I asked, keeping my hand on the door frame like it might need to keep me standing.
“I left some things,” he said, like we were discussing a hoodie he forgot after a movie. “Ten minutes.”
The man had bickered over fork counts during the divorce. What could he possibly have left behind? Against better judgment—and because I was exhausted by the constant war—I stepped aside.He didn’t go to the garage. He didn’t open a hall closet. He walked, without a word, straight into the kids’ room and unzipped an empty gym bag.
“Jake?” My voice snagged.
His eyes moved over the shelves like a shopper comparing prices: the Lego kits, Oliver’s dinosaurs, Mia’s pink dollhouse with the tiny armchairs she rearranged every night before bed. He started sweeping toys into the bag.
