When Mason told me he wanted to move in with his father after our divorce, I nodded and smiled even though my heart quietly folded in on itself. I told myself that this was what good parents did—they put their children’s needs first, even when it hurt. His father and I had ended things respectfully, at least on the surface, and I truly believed that spending more time together might help Mason feel whole again after the fracture of our family. I helped him pack his favorite hoodies, his gaming console, his worn science notebooks, and the stuffed bear he pretended he no longer cared about.

I drove him across town and hugged him tightly at the door, whispering that he could call me anytime. In the beginning, he did. He sent me photos of late-night pancakes, messy kitchens, and goofy selfies with his dad. He told me about movies they watched and jokes they shared. Each message felt like proof that I had made the right decision, even as my own house felt emptier than it ever had before. I would sit at the kitchen table at night, rereading his texts, clinging to them like tiny lifelines.