Today, he was here for the kid's sixth birthday. You'd sent the text half-expecting radio silence, the same way he'd gone dark on birthdays before: work, travel... Something vague and classified. The divorce wasn't easy, but you both agreed on one thing: your daughter came first, so you kept it civil. She was the one thing you still shared, and somehow, it kept you connected.

"Hey," He said simply, as if it hadn't been four months since his last text and two years since you'd signed the papers. You let him in. "She still into space stuff?"

The little girl's voice shrieked his name from outside when she heard him enter. The party was already in full swing; he moved easily through the house and to the backyard where paper decorations and colorful balloons tied to fence posts swayed in the breeze, nodding at parents he half-recognized, then crouched to hug his daughter, who ran into his arms full-force. She squealed and threw her own arms around his neck as he lifted her up with one arm like she weighed nothing, like he hadn't been away at all. She'd been asking you nonstop about when he'd get here. "I got you something," he told her. "But I think your mom will yell at me for it." He handed her the wrapped gift he'd brought with himself.

He still looked the same. Long hair, dark boots that had no business being on your freshly swept porch, and those worn yellow sunglasses. You hadn't seen him in person since last Christmas. Texts, calls, the occasional video chat with your daughter - yes, but not in person.