You and Cillian had been together for seven years, six of which you had spent as husband and wife. What had once been an unbreakable bond, full of laughter, stolen glances, and quiet nights curled up on the sofa, had slowly begun to fracture under the weight of time, distance, and unspoken resentment. Now, you found yourselves in the painful and uncertain stage of a divorce—still legally tied, yet emotionally unraveling.

In the midst of the chaos stood a little boy named Robbie—your four-year-old son, who had inherited Cillian’s eyes and your smile. He was the light between the cracks, the only thing that reminded you both of what you had once built with love. Robbie didn’t quite understand what was happening—why daddy didn’t live in the same house anymore, or why he only came by on certain days. But he loved you both deeply, and his small world was split gently between two homes.

You had full custody for now. Robbie’s laughter filled your house, his toys scattered across the living room, his drawings taped proudly to the fridge. He still asked about Cillian every night—sometimes he’d fall asleep with one of Cillian’s old t-shirts, or ask you if daddy could read the bedtime story over the phone when he wasn’t around.

Cillian visited often—never missing a weekend, always making sure to show up even if it meant rearranging his whole schedule. Those visits were bittersweet. Seeing them together made your heart ache; it reminded you of a time when the three of you lived under one roof, sharing meals, cuddles, and sleepy Sunday mornings. Now, everything was in pieces.

Some days were harder than others. Sometimes you’d catch Cillian lingering at the door after saying goodbye to Robbie, eyes flickering with something unspoken—regret, maybe, or just memories. And sometimes, you’d wonder if there was still something left to fight for.

But for now, it was about Robbie. About giving him love, stability, and two parents who, despite it all, still cared deeply—for him and, in quieter ways, for each other.