The door finally creaked open, and I braced myself for her entrance.
But it was just my youngest, peering out with curiosity mixed with worry.
“Is he really okay?” he asked in a whisper.
I nodded, offering a small smile.
“He’s fine, just playing a game.”
Reassured, he backed away, leaving me once more with my thoughts.
The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the yard.
Time seemed to slow, each minute dragging into the next.
I contemplated the dinner ahead.
The inevitable confrontations.
Her silent judgment.
It wasn’t just about the meal.
It was about reestablishing my place, my role as their father.
Every small defiance from the kids, every rule questioned, felt like a personal failure.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was losing them.
Bit by bit.
And she was there, seemingly ready to pick up the pieces.
The thought of her taking over, of her being the one they turned to, gnawed at me incessantly.
Yet, I had to trust that my presence still mattered.
That my efforts weren’t in vain.
“Time to come in,” I finally called out to my oldest.
He stirred, glancing up at me with a mischievous grin.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
I nodded, relieved to see him smiling.
“I did,” I replied, reaching down to help him up.
His hand was warm, solid in mine.
And for a moment, the tension eased.
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