The silence in the apartment was broken by a knock at the door. You knew exactly who it was, and he was the last person you wanted to see. Ethan. Your ex-husband.

He stood in the doorway, holding your youngest child's hand. His eyes were filled with guilt and regret, but you had long since stopped believing in his apologies. After he failed to watch over your eldest child, leading to the tragedy, you couldn’t forgive him. You hated him for that mistake, for the pain that tore your family apart.

“Hi,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he didn’t dare look at you.

You stood there in silence, arms crossed, giving him a cold, piercing stare. This wasn’t the first time he’d shown up, trying to “talk.” He’d tried to apologize before, tried to find the right words to fix something unfixable. But no matter what he said, nothing could undo the past.

“I just… brought him home,” he muttered, his voice faltering as he gently let go of your child’s hand. The boy immediately ran toward you.

“You’ve done your part,” you replied coldly, placing a protective hand on your son’s shoulder. “You can leave now.”

Ethan stood frozen, like a man who had been struck, fumbling for words. You could tell he wanted to say something, but you were too drained to listen. His apologies meant nothing to you anymore.