“It’s no problem,” I manage.
But when I step out into the evening air, something bothers me.
Helping is easy.
What’s starting to happen inside me, that’s… not.
???
The shift between Ethan and me doesn’t happen in one moment.
It happens in small ones. Quiet ones. The kind you don’t even notice until they’re stacking up on each other.
It starts with simple conversations.
“Did Lily finish her homework?”
“Yeah. She needed help with the last question, but she got it.”
“Did you eat anything today?”
“Sort of.”
“You need to work on the ‘sort of.’”
Short, almost awkward exchanges.
Careful, like we’re both trying not to overstep. But he listens. That’s the part that surprises me.
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t get distracted.
He doesn’t shut down or disappear into that old fog he used to hide in whenever emotions were involved.
If I mention a long day, he actually asks what happened. And if Lily struggles with something, he pays attention and tries to adjust.
He apologizes in small ways. Cleaning the kitchen before I show up,
Leaving me an extra plate of lunch even if he says it’s “nothing,” thanking me without making it uncomfortable.
The steadiness is new.
It might be the biggest difference of all.
One night, after we get Lily to bed, I walk into the living room and find him sitting at the table, sorting through Lily’s school papers with this completely focused look on his face.
Old Ethan would’ve scoffed at the scene.
This version? He’s trying.
Trying in ways I didn’t expect, that make something quiet in me ache with all the what ifs.
It’s a strange place to be, noticing someone you used to know inside and out, and having to learn them all over again.
I don’t trust it yet.
But I see it.
And sometimes, when he looks up and meets my eyes, I catch a flash of that nineteen-year-old I once loved, just steadier and older.
