It’s evening when you come home. The lights in the living room are warm — the kind of glow that used to feel like home, but now feels like a memory.

You pause in the doorway. Joshua’s sitting on the floor with your little boy in his lap, helping him stack colorful blocks. Your son laughs — that bright, contagious laugh that used to bring you both running from across the house.

“Appa, up! Up!” your son giggles, raising his arms.

Joshua smiles softly and lifts him, spinning him once before settling him back down. His voice is low, gentle, full of love.

“There you go, champ. You’re getting strong, huh?”

You take a step closer, your voice soft.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, kneeling.

Your son’s face lights up immediately.

“Mommy!” he squeals, wobbling toward you with tiny steps.

You open your arms, heart clenching — but before he can reach you, Joshua’s voice cuts through, still calm, still tender, but directed only at the boy.

“Hey, careful, buddy. Slow down. You’ll trip.”

He says it without even looking at you. Your son stumbles into your lap, laughing, and you wrap him in your arms — but Joshua’s already turned back toward the toys, gathering them up methodically, as if you’re not even there.

You swallow hard.

“Joshua…” you start quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Your son tugs at his sleeve, pointing at you.

“Mommy’s home,” he says brightly.

Joshua finally looks up — not at you, but at his son.

“I know, buddy.” Then, quietly: “Why don’t you show Mommy the tower you built earlier?”

The words are polite, distant, rehearsed. His tone isn’t cruel — it’s emptier than that.