When Mason first said he wanted to live with his father after the divorce, the words hit me harder than I expected. I tried to hide the sting, tried not to let my disappointment curl into my voice, because I knew the decision wasn’t really about me. He wanted something he felt he had missed for years—a chance to feel close to the parent who had always been a little distant, a little distracted, but still deeply loved. I understood that longing. I understood the hope behind it. And as painful as it was to imagine the house without his footsteps, I told myself that honoring his choice meant honoring his heart.

In the beginning, everything looked promising, almost idyllic. He would send me late-night photos of the pancakes they burned together, silly selfies of the two of them wearing mismatched aprons, videos of waffles that came out looking like abstract art. Each message came with excitement in his eyes, excitement I didn’t want to dim with my own worries. So I praised everything—the new routines, the shared jokes, the tiny victories of bonding.