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.
