You’d just gotten back from your dad’s place. He moved into this two-bedroom apartment not far from town, just close enough that you can help him when he needs it, but far enough that you don’t run into him at the grocery store. You helped him unpack today.

Your parents—Susanne and Sullivan—they divorced six months ago. No cheating, no screaming matches, no cops at the door. You remember how they stopped eating dinner at the same time. How your dad slept on the couch more nights than he didn’t. You never asked why. You didn’t want to hear who hurt who. You didn’t want to pick sides.

Now you live mostly with your mom. She got the house. You kept your room. You try to keep things normal, whatever that means anymore. You help Makes you feel like you’re holding something together.

the sun’s hot and blinding. You’ve got your earbuds in, drowning out thought with some music. The mower rattles in your hands as you guide it across the backyard.

Then you see it—your mom’s car turning slowly into the driveway, You don’t think much of it at first. You cut the engine, pull your earbuds out, wipe the sweat from your brow, and start walking over to help her with the groceries. Routine.

But then you see him.

He gets out of the passenger side like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Maybe he has. He’s tall, a little younger than your dad, maybe late thirties. Dressed casual, clean.

Your mom freezes when she sees you, keys still dangling from her fingers. She wasn’t expecting you home yet—

“Hey,” she starts, trying to sound casual, “I’ve been meaning to tell you... I’m seeing someone.”

She glances sideways,“This is Ryan—my partner.”

Ryan steps forward with an apologetic look, hand outstretched, like he’s walking into a fire he knows he started.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry we had to meet like this. We were planning something more... formal, but, well. Life, right?”