But hope can be dangerous when you're still bleeding. So every time I felt the ice inside me begin to thaw, every time I felt that fragile flicker of maybe, I reminded myself of the old wounds. The nights I cried alone in silence while he worked late again. The cruel arguments. The nights he didn't notice my sadness, or worse—noticed and looked away. The years I shrank smaller just to keep the peace.
And just like that, I'd reset.
Back to focus. Back to the plan. No detours. No illusions. No slipping. Because loving someone doesn't mean forgetting how they made you feel when you were at your lowest.
Still... I was happy for Jimmy.
He seemed lighter these days—laughing more easily, his shoulders not drawn so tight. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before: a spark. That afternoon, he came barreling through the door like a whirlwind of energy and laughter. His cheeks were flushed from soccer practice, hair tousled and damp with sweat, his backpack half-zipped and dragging a string of grass from the field. He was mid-laugh, still caught in whatever joke or moment had followed him home.
Thomas trailed behind him, keys in hand, looking slightly dazed but amused—like he'd just stepped into a world he hadn't visited in years and wasn't quite sure how to leave.
"Someone's in a good mood," I said, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched.
Jimmy kicked off his shoes with the usual reckless aim—one landing by the stairs, the other in the opposite direction—and beamed at me. "Practice was awesome—and then Dad took me to this comic store after, and oh my God, Mom, you should've seen him. He was so clueless." He snorted, eyes wide with disbelief. "He was holding two issues of Spider-Man and was like, 'Are these the same guy?' The same guy, Mom!"
I couldn't help but laugh. The joy radiating off of him was so bright it felt like a light warming the whole house. It reminded me of when he was little—when the world was still full of wonder, and everything could be solved with a hug and a snack.
But then, like a cloud drifting over the sun, his expression shifted. The laughter in his eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by something softer. Uncertain. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit I'd known since he was four.
"Mom..." he started, voice quieter now. "Is this okay?"
I tilted my head, confused. "Is what okay, baby?"
He looked down, shuffling one foot across the floor.
"Me... spending time with Dad. And being happy to be with him." His voice broke just a little. "I know you and Dad aren't... you know... together. I just—I don't wanna hurt you."
My heart twisted in my chest. He shouldn't have to carry this. Not at his age. Not when he was finally smiling again.
I placed both hands on his cheeks, guiding his eyes to mine.
"Oh, my beautiful boy," I whispered. "Listen to me, okay? I should've said this before, and I'm sorry I didn't. But hear me now."
He nodded slightly, blinking fast.
"You loving your dad... finding joy with him... laughing at his terrible comic book confusion—that's not only okay. It's good. It means your heart is still open. It means you're brave enough to let love in, even when things have been hard."
He let out a shaky breath, and I felt his little body lean toward mine just enough.
I went on, my voice thick but steady, my thumbs brushing gently against his cheeks. "Your dad and I... we have our stuff. Grown-up stuff. Complicated, messy things that have absolutely nothing to do with you, or the way we both love you and your sister. And nothing—nothing—you feel for him could ever hurt me. I promise you that."
He looked into my eyes like he was trying to read beneath the words. Searching, hesitating—because part of him still carried the weight of our silence, of the nights he might've heard our voices behind closed doors or noticed our glances that didn't hold warmth anymore. He was old enough to feel the shifts, even when we tried to hide them.
So I kept going, not letting go.
"Your dad and I may not be together anymore..." I took a breath, one I didn't know I'd been holding, "but that doesn't change the most important thing in the world: you are ours. You always will be. That will never change, no matter where we live, no matter what last names are written on documents, no matter what."
His eyes welled a little, and I could feel his body relax in my arms.
"I want you to have all the memories you can with him," I said softly. "The silly ones, the loud ones, I want you to collect them like treasures. Because those are your stories with him. And they matter."
He didn't speak, but his hands gripped the back of my shirt a little tighter, and I could feel the words he couldn't quite form.
"I love seeing you happy, Jimmy," I whispered, kissing the side of his head. "That smile of yours? I live for it. It reminds me that, even in all this mess, we've done something right. You're not hurting me by loving him. You're making my heart bigger."
He pulled back just enough to look at me again. "Even if I laugh more with him now than I used to?"
I smiled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "That's how it should be. That's all I want. I want you to laugh. I want you to feel safe. You don't have to protect me, baby. That's not your job."
He gave a slow nod, still holding on.
"You're not going to have to choose between us," I whispered into his hair, my arms wrapped tightly around him like I could shield him from every difficult truth this life might bring. "That's not how this works. You've got both of us, okay? No getting rid of either."
He held onto me a little tighter, burying his face deeper into my shoulder like he was trying to disappear into safety. "Good," he mumbled, voice muffled but honest. "'Cause I really, really love spending time with Dad."
My heart clenched—not in pain, but in something close to gratitude. I pulled back just enough to see his face and brushed the hair from his forehead. Then, I kissed him there, softly, slowly.
"I'm so glad you do, sweetheart," I said, my voice steady even though emotion swirled beneath the surface.
And I meant it. Deep in my bones, I meant it.
Because healing wasn't just mine to carry. It belonged to him too. It lived in his laughter, in the way he ran through the house with comic books clutched in his hand and dirt on his shoes. It lived in the freedom of knowing he didn't have to pick sides. That he was safe to love both his parents without guilt or fear.
We were undoing something. Quietly. Carefully. Not just the damage from the past few years, but the heaviness that divorce can sometimes sew into a child's heart—the fear of fracture, of lost love, of being caught in the crossfire of adult decisions they never made.
He leaned his head against my chest again, his breath evening out, and I held him there for a while longer. No rush. No pressure. Just stillness.
Behind us, life waited—dishes in the sink, unread messages, the next complicated conversation I knew was coming.
But for now, there was only this moment.
And it was enough.