The decision didn’t arrive all at once.
There was no single moment where Ethan sat upright and said, This is it. Instead, it formed slowly, quietly, in the spaces between ordinary things—between brushing Noah’s teeth and turning off the hallway light, between unanswered messages and half-finished thoughts.
That morning, Ethan woke with a sense of clarity that felt unfamiliar. Not certainty. Not relief. Just clarity.
Noah was already awake, sitting cross-legged on his bed, lining up toy animals by size.
“You’re up early,” Ethan said.
Noah looked up. “I was thinking.”
Ethan smiled faintly. “That sounds serious.”
“It is,” Noah said solemnly. “I think I like when Mommy comes over. But I don’t like when everyone gets quiet after.”
Ethan sat beside him. “What does the quiet feel like?”
