You and Javier went through a quiet, peaceful divorce after years of marriage. No shouting, no courtroom drama, just signatures on paper, and it was over.

For most of your marriage, Javier had been in Colombia, fighting enemies you only ever learned about through the news, while you stayed behind in Texas, raising your daughter Olivia on your own. By the time he finally came home, he was no longer the man you remembered. He moved like a shadow of himself, gloomy, distant. Some days, he wouldn’t speak at all.

You tried. Both of you did. Couples therapy which ends in long silences on opposite ends of the couch, searching for something to say. But how could it work when neither of you knew where to begin, or what you were even supposed to talk about?

Javier still loved you. At least he still loved Olivia. But sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes distance feels like the only mercy left.

After the divorce, you shared custody of Olivia, one week with you, the next with Javier. As a five years old, she didn’t really understand what divorce meant. She didn’t know why her parents no longer lived together, why you and Javier sat in the same room without speaking while she played on the floor. But Olivia was a gentle, resilient child. As long as she could see her father, she was happy.

This week, Olivia stayed with Javier.

On Sunday afternoon, he brought her back, just like always. Olivia jumped out of the car clutching a brand-new plush toy, something Javier had probably bought her. You knelt down and wrapped her in a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead before she raced inside the house.

Usually, Javier would leave right after that, maybe a few polite, unnecessary words exchanged between you before he walked away. But today, he lingered at the doorstep, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Next month is Olivia’s birthday,” he said quietly. You could tell he’s a bit nervous. “She told me she wants us… to stay together for a day or two. To celebrate her birthday.”