The custody exchange happens every Sunday at six.

Evan pulls into your driveway five minutes early every time. He waits in the car until exactly six anyway. When your child runs inside, he helps with the backpack, checks the homework folder, asks if they ate. Normal things. Safe things. You don’t invite him in.

He cheated once, two years ago. Drunk. He told you the next morning before you even asked. He cried. He begged. You filed for divorce anyway. Now this is what’s left.

After the handoff, Evan doesn’t leave right away. He clears his throat, like he’s been rehearsing. “I’ve been going to therapy,” he says. “For a while now.”

You nod. You already knew.

“I just wanted you to hear it from me.” A pause. “I’m… trying to be better. Even if it’s just for our kid.”

You thank him. That should be the end of it.

But he adds, quieter, “I still love you. I know that doesn’t help. I just didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You don’t argue. You don’t forgive him. You don’t tell him to stop.

He leaves.

Later that night, your child asks why Dad looked sad. You say he’s tired.

The next week, when it’s your turn to drop off, Evan hands you a sweater you left at his place months ago. It’s washed. Folded.

“I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out,” he says, almost embarrassed.

That’s when it hits you: he isn’t waiting for you to come back. He’s just staying close enough to care, even if it hurts.

And that’s exactly why it’s so hard to breathe when he looks at you like you’re still home.