My ex-wife came to see our son. She ended up staying the night. I let her sleep on the couch. After midnight, I heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.

I opened the door.

“Hey,” she said. “I know it’s not technically my night. I just… had a work thing fall through in Ikeja, and since I was already nearby I thought maybe I could stop by and see Eke before heading back.”

She looked exhausted — not the normal tiredness from a busy week, but the kind that sits behind someone’s eyes.

“Of course,” I said. “Come in.”

Eke heard her voice from the living room and came charging in the way only seven-year-olds can — full speed, no hesitation — and collided with her like a human missile. She caught him easily and laughed.

That laugh again.

Filling the whole room.

I went back into the kitchen and finished cooking dinner. After a minute I called out, “There’s enough jollof if you want to stay.”

There was a short pause.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“It’s just jollof, Adanna.”

So she stayed.

Adanna listened exactly the way she always had — asking real questions, remembering details, giving him her full attention.

I watched her from across the table and felt something I’d spent eighteen months trying not to feel.

Later Eke asked if his mom could stay to watch a movie.

I looked at Adanna.

She looked at me.

“It’s up to your dad,” she said.

“It’s fine,” I replied.

We watched The Incredibles. Eke’s choice, even though it was his fourth time seeing it. His enthusiasm hadn’t faded at all.

About forty minutes before the movie ended, he fell asleep between us on the couch — exactly the way he used to when he was younger and Friday nights still meant family movie nights.

When the credits rolled, I glanced at Adanna.

She was staring at Eke with the kind of expression people only show when they think no one is watching — soft, open, a little sad.

“I should go,” she said quietly, though she didn’t move.

“It’s almost ten,” I said. “And it’s forty minutes back to Lekki.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Adanna,” I said calmly. “The couch pulls out. You know where the extra blankets are.

It doesn’t make sense to drive forty minutes this late when you’re coming back here at nine tomorrow morning anyway.”

She studied my face for a moment.

Something flickered across her expression that I couldn’t quite interpret.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Thank you.”

I carried Eke to his room. I unfolded the couch. I grabbed blankets from the hallway closet and set them on the armrest without making a big deal of it.

I said goodnight from the doorway of the living room, and she answered from the couch.

Then I went to my room, lay down, and stared at the ceiling in the dark until sleep eventually came.

I woke up at 12:40 AM.

That part isn’t unusual. Since Eke was born, I’ve been a light sleeper — the kind of parent who spent years listening for a child crying in the night.