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.

A small, stifled sob.

And that decided it.

I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, careful not to turn on the lights.

The living room was dim, lit only by the streetlight leaking through the curtains.

She was sitting on the edge of the couch.

Not lying down.

Not sleeping.

Just… sitting there.

Folded into herself.

“Adanna?”

She startled slightly, quickly wiping her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Did I wake you?”

I shook my head.

“That’s not important. What’s wrong?”

She hesitated.

And for a moment, I thought she would do what we’ve both gotten very good at—deflect, minimize, move on.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Automatically.

I almost nodded.

Almost accepted it.

Almost turned back down the hallway.

That would’ve been the version of me from six months ago.

But something about the way she was sitting there…

Alone.

In a house that used to be hers.

Crying quietly so she wouldn’t wake anyone.

“That’s not true,” I said.

She looked up at me.

Really looked.