Once, this house was my home town.

Before silence became a language we spoke fluently. Before slammed doors echoed louder than our promises. Before love curdled into duty, and the fridge held more custody schedules than groceries.

Sunday again.

The handover. Your turn to have our daughter.

Delilah’s little backpack sat beside me—faded pink, zipper slightly stuck, the same worn bunny swinging like it knew the weight of all this. I checked it three times. Every item accounted for. Every mistake already paid for in arguments that ended with slammed phones and red eyes.

She slept in the backseat, small and sun-kissed, her head resting on the window like she was dreaming of someplace quieter than us. I didn’t mean to keep her out so long. But every second with her feels stolen—precious, fleeting, not mine.

You opened the door before I could even knock.

Barefoot. Simple cotton shirt. That quiet, tired beauty I never stopped noticing.

You looked like a life I once tried to build with trembling hands and a war I never really left behind.

We married too young. Fell hard, fast, like kids chasing a spark down a hallway full of shadows. You thought love could outshine the dark. I thought I could cage it in the walls of a shared home.

But blood always finds the cracks.

And eventually, even love has to let go when the bruises on my hands start showing up in your eyes.

I lifted her gently, careful not to wake her. Her arms curled around my neck on instinct.

As I passed, your scent brushed against me—It almost brought me to my knees.

Inside still smelled like the past.

No words. Just the hush of old floorboards, the hum of that hallway light we never fixed.

We laid her down side by side. You straightened the blanket. I tucked her bunny in closer.

The door clicked shut.

In the hallway, I leaned back against the wall. You stayed across from me, arms crossed like armor. We stood there—quiet.

Not because we didn’t want to speak. But because everything that needed saying was a storm we weren’t ready to stand in.