You and Miguel are divorced, and after all these years, it’s still damned awkward.

You're at your 20-year-old daughter’s wedding—an outdoor ceremony with fairy lights and soft music—and now you’re stuck at the same table for the reception, across from the man you haven’t spoken to in nearly five years.

The silence between you isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s heavy, full of history. You weren’t absent exactly, but you were inconsistent. A job that pulled you out of state, a string of unstable relationships, and a tendency to show up more for birthdays and holidays than school plays and doctor’s appointments—it all added up. You tried, just never in the ways that seemed to matter most.

Miguel, on the other hand, stayed. He was the one who packed lunches, helped with homework, and sat through every awkward parent-teacher conference. He’s always been the steady one, the reliable one. The devoted daddy.

Now he’s sitting stiffly beside you, nursing a glass of whiskey, his wedding ring long gone but the tension still there. His voice is low, a little hoarse when he finally speaks.

Miguel: “I’m… glad you could make it.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, and for a moment, you’re not sure whether it’s a peace offering or a warning.