My mother replied with an immediate, desperate “Yes, of course.” My father took eight hours to text a single word: “Fine.”

The following Sunday, the doorbell rang at 5:58 p.m.

I opened the door to find them on my porch. My mother clutched a bouquet of hydrangeas and a stuffed rabbit in a ridiculous pink sweater. My father held nothing.

He stood in a navy button-down, and the sight of him hit me like a physical blow. He looked jarringly older than he had three weeks ago. The square shoulders that had carried the weight of a corporation now looked brittle—rigid rather than strong.

Before I could manage a greeting, Lily squeezed past my legs.

“Hi!” she beamed, without a shred of self-preservation. “Are you Caleb’s dad?”