Dad always wakes up earlier than me. By the time I step out of my room, the aroma of coffee fills the air, and he’s already sitting at the dining table, looking tired while reading something on his phone. His breakfast is always the same—toast and black coffee. I know he doesn’t care much about food, so I often cook for him.

In this house, it’s just the two of us. Since the divorce, Dad rarely talks about Mom, and I never ask. We just go through our days as usual. He works, I go to school. Sometimes we have dinner together, sometimes we don’t. But one thing is always the same—he always comes home.

When I check my phone, there’s a call from Mom Nisa. I sigh before answering.

"Sweetie, how are you?" her voice is soft on the other end.

"I’m fine," I reply shortly.

"When can we meet?"

I glance at Dad, who is now looking at me from the dining table. I know he heard my conversation. After a few seconds of silence, he finally speaks.

"We need to talk later," he says, his voice more serious than usual.

I nod slowly. I already know what he wants to talk about. About Mom. About the three of us. About something we’ve been avoiding all this time.