The Weekends Were Too Perfect
When I first left James, the divorce didn’t come with dramatic screaming matches.
It came with exhaustion. Quiet resentment. Two people trying to look “reasonable” while breaking each other in slow motion.
We agreed on a simple arrangement.
Every other weekend, he’d take our daughter, Lily, for “father-daughter time.”
Lily was six.
Bright. Curious. The kind of kid who asked hard questions at the worst moments.
And she loved her dad in that uncomplicated way children do, even when adults make things complicated.
At first, the weekends were messy.
Late pickups. Missed calls. Lily returning home hungry or wired from too much screen time.
Then, suddenly, he got… consistent.
On the dot. Clean clothes. Cute little stories about pancake breakfasts and “special adventures.”
People told me I was lucky.
“He’s stepping up,” my friend Sarah said. “Don’t overthink it.”
I tried not to.
But something felt off in a way I couldn’t prove.
Like the air before a storm.
And my daughter, who usually couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, started coming home quieter.
Not sad.
Just… careful.
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