That part isn’t unusual. Since Eke was born, I’ve been a light sleeper — the kind of parent who spent years listening for a child crying in the night.
I woke up at 12:40 a.m.
At first, I didn’t move.
There’s a particular kind of silence that exists in a house at that hour—thick, settled, familiar. I’ve learned not to disturb it unless I have a reason.
Then I heard it.
A sound from the living room.
Soft.
Not the television. Not footsteps.
Breathing.
Unsteady.
Like someone trying—and failing—to keep it quiet.
I sat up slowly.
Listened again.
There it was.
A quiet, broken inhale.
Then another.
Adanna
For a few seconds, I stayed where I was
Because there are lines you don’t cross after a divorce. Invisible boundaries you honte build carefully, brick by brick, until they feel permanent.
This felt like one of them.
But then I heard it again.
A small, stifled sob.
And that decided it.
I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, careful not to turn on the lights.
The living room was dim, lit only by the streetlight leaking through the curtains.
She was sitting on the edge of the couch.
Not lying down.
Not sleeping.
Just… sitting there.
Folded into herself.
“Adanna?”
She startled slightly, quickly wiping her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Did I wake you?”
I shook my head.
“That’s not important. What’s wrong?”
She hesitated.
And for a moment, I thought she would do what we’ve both gotten very good at—deflect, minimize, move on.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Automatically.
I almost nodded.
Almost accepted it.
Almost turned back down the hallway.
That would’ve been the version of me from six months ago.
But something about the way she was sitting there…
Alone.
In a house that used to be hers.
Crying quietly so she wouldn’t wake anyone.
“That’s not true,” I said.
She looked up at me.
Really looked.
And something in that look… broke.
“I lost the account,” she said, her voice unsteady. “The big one I told you about last month.”
I nodded slowly.
I remembered.
“They gave it to someone else,” she continued. “After everything I put into it.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“And my boss basically said if I don’t land something bigger this quarter…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to.
I leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Listening.
The way I used to.
“I didn’t want to come here tonight,” she said after a pause. “Not like that. I didn’t want it to feel like I needed something.”
Her voice dropped.
“But I did.”
Silence stretched between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… honest.
“I miss this house,” she admitted.
My chest tightened slightly.
“I miss… normal things,” she added. “Dinner. Noise. Eke arguing about cartoons.”
A small, sad smile.
“I even miss the way you leave dishes in the sink and insist you’ll ‘get to them later.’”
I let out a quiet breath.
“Still accurate,” I said.
She laughed softly.
There it was again.
Quieter this time.
But real.
“I didn’t expect it to hit me like this,” she said. “I thought I had adjusted.”
A pause.
“I thought I was okay.”
I pushed off the wall and walked a little closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
“You are okay,” I said.
She shook her head.
“No. I’m functioning.”
She looked up at me.
“That’s not the same thing.”
That landed harder than I expected.
Because I understood it.
Too well.
We stood there for a moment, in the half-dark, two people who used to share everything and now shared almost nothing.
Except this.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I said finally.
The words came out before I could overthink them.
She frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
Thjs photo is not edited. Look closer and try not to gasp when you see it in the first comment below⬇
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