You learned to measure time differently after the divorce. Not in days, but in handoffs. Fridays at 6 p.m. when he’d show up at the door. Sundays at 7 when he’d leave again, lingering just a second too long in the hallway like he forgot something he could never quite name Oliver made it easier, he made it possible

“Dad’s here!” your son called out, already halfway to the door before you could even answer

You wiped your hands on a dish towel, steadying yourself before opening it

And there he was, same jacket, same way of standing like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome, but hoped he still was

That was all, at first. It had been months, but you were still learning this new language of almost strangers who knew each other too well

By Saturday morning, it almost felt normal again

You’d wake up to the sound of them in the kitchen, Oliver talking nonstop, him responding in that low, amused tone you used to fall asleep to.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, unnoticed.

“Coffee?” he asked, already reaching for a mug like he still knew exactly which one was yours