It was a Friday night in March, just another ordinary evening. Cooper was with me for the week, and Diane was supposed to pick him up the next morning. It was routine, the arrangement we had set up after the divorce. But when the doorbell rang at 6:45 PM, I wasn’t expecting it to be her.
I opened the door to find Diane standing on the porch, coat draped over her shoulder, a bag in hand. She looked a little worn out, and I immediately sensed something was off. She hadn’t given me any heads-up about stopping by.
“Hey,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “I know it’s not my night. I just… had a work thing fall through in Raleigh and I was already out here. I thought maybe I could see Coop for a bit before I head back.”
Her eyes were tired. Not the normal end-of-the-week tired, but something deeper, more worn. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Of course,” I said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Cooper, who had been playing in the living room, heard her voice and came running in like a little whirlwind. He hit her at full speed, and she caught him, laughing that familiar laugh of hers that used to fill our house with warmth.
I watched them for a moment, feeling a pang of something — longing, maybe? — before I shook it off. It was just the way things were now. Nothing more.
I went back to the kitchen and finished making dinner, calling out, “There’s enough pasta if you want to stay.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
“It’s just pasta, Diane.”
