May 18, 2026.
Six weeks had passed since the Saturday talk, and every day of those weeks had felt like walking on thin ice—careful steps, held breath, waiting for the crack.
Mia had texted more. Short messages at first: a meme, a “how’s your day,” a photo of her lunch. Then longer conversations. Phone calls that lasted an hour. She’d come over once, just for coffee, stayed two hours. We’d laughed about an old inside joke from college, and for a moment it felt like before.
But it wasn’t before.
There were pauses now. Topics we skirted. Silences that carried weight.
Tonight was the test.
The first real family dinner since everything broke open.
Mia had insisted on cooking. “I need to do something normal,” she’d said on the phone. “Let me make dinner at Dad’s. Just us.”
Damien and I h
