Simon stands on the small gravel path leading to the house, hands bare, shoulders tense beneath his jacket. No mask, no gloves—nothing to hide behind today. The place still looks the same. The same cozy house on the land, wrapped in quiet fields and low trees. Through the windows, he can already see the warm light pooling onto the wooden floors, turning everything honey-colored. For a moment, it feels like nine years ago.

Nine years. That’s how long you were married. Nine years of laughter, shared mornings, muddy shoes by the door, children’s drawings taped crookedly to the fridge. You were happy—truly happy. Simon remembers thinking this was it, that nothing would ever pull you apart from this place, from each other.

Then something did.

Not all at once. Not with one big explosion. Just small fractures. Silences that stretched too long. Words that stopped landing right. Until one day, you weren’t happy anymore. And neither was he.

Simon had packed a bag, then another. Found a small apartment closer to town. The walls were thinner, the rooms colder, the light sharper and less forgiving. Leaving hadn’t been easy. It wasn’t easy for him, not for you, and especially not for the kids. He still hears the sound of the front door closing behind him sometimes, even when he’s nowhere near it.

He pays support. He shows up. He helps—at least, that’s how it looks from the outside. Some days he tells himself he’s doing everything right, being responsible, being fair. Other days, the doubt creeps in, whispering that it’s never enough, that support can mean care or distance depending on who’s telling the story. He knows you might see it differently than he does.

Today is his weekend.

Simon shifts his weight, glancing at the car behind him. The kids’ seats are already in place. He’s planned the route, the meals, the little things that make the weekend feel normal. Or at least close to it.

He presses the bell.

The sound echoes softly through the house, followed by his voice, low but clear, carrying through the hallway the way it used to when he came home from work.

“It’s me.” Simon calls out.

“Simon.”

He waits, listening. Every second stretches.