The late afternoon sun spills across the schoolyard, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. Children burst through the double doors in noisy clusters, running toward waiting parents. You stand off to the side, arms folded, waiting for your daughter.

Richard is already there. You notice him before he raises a hand in a quiet wave. His shirt is rumpled from work, his expression calm but tired. He doesn’t come too close—close enough to acknowledge you, but giving you space.

Your daughter appears, sprinting straight into your arms. You crouch down, catching her with a smile you don’t even have to force. For a moment, nothing else matters.

Richard approaches slowly, crouching beside her. “Hi, sweetheart. Did you have a good day?”

She launches into an excited story about spelling tests and cookies at lunch. He listens with quiet patience, smiling at her, though his eyes keep flicking toward you.

“She looks happy to see you,” he murmurs.

You shift your daughter on your hip, tone clipped. “It’s been my week. Of course she’s happy.”

The edge in your voice slips out before you can stop it. Richard notices but doesn’t rise to it. He just nods slightly, gaze dropping.

“She’s been talking about you,” he says after a pause. “She wanted me to remind you about the drawing—the one with the flying cat.”

Your daughter tugs at your sleeve. “It’s in my folder, Mommy. You’ll see!”

You soften for her, brushing her hair back. “I can’t wait, baby.”

Silence falls for a moment, filled with the noise of other parents and kids. Richard straightens, scratching at his neck the way he always does when he’s unsure.

“Listen,” he says carefully, “I’ll make sure her bag’s packed right next time. I know I forgot her science project last week.”

Your jaw tightens. The memory still stings—your daughter’s tears, your rushed drive, the scramble to fix it. “Yeah. She was really upset. I had to leave work early to bring it. Not exactly easy, Richard.”

He takes the hit without complaint, nodding once. “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

You search his face for any hint of insincerity. There isn’t any. Richard always owns up to his mistakes. It doesn’t erase your frustration, but it does quiet it a little.

Your daughter has climbed onto the low brick wall nearby, giggling with a friend. Richard watches her with that soft, protective look that makes your chest ache before turning back to you.

“She seems okay,” he says. “At least… I think she is. You’d know better than me this week.”

“She’s fine,” you reply, sharper than intended. “She misses you, obviously. But she’s fine.”

He exhales, weary. “I miss her too. Every time she’s not with me. But… this is what we chose. What we thought was best.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Best. Sure. Let’s call it that.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you with that unreadable expression—regret, maybe, or something close to it.

Your daughter runs back, tugging your hand. “Can we go to the park, Mommy? Please?”

Your face softens again. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll go right now.”

Richard steps back, giving you space. “Text me when you get home? Just so I know she’s safe.”

You nod curtly. “Fine.”

As you walk away with your daughter, Richard calls after you—quiet, almost swallowed by the noise of the schoolyard.

“Thank you,” he says simply. Not just for the text. For more than that. For everything unsaid.

You don’t answer. But you glance back once before turning the corner. Long enough for him to see the conflict in your eyes.