Three Chances, Then Gone
On our son's fifth birthday, I found the texts on Stanley's phone—from his best friend's widow:
[Stanley, the kid misses his dad again. When are you coming over?]
[Stanley, Archie liked a set of matching family outfits. I already ordered them. Let's wear them together this weekend.]
[Stanley, Archie starts school tomorrow. I put your name down under "father." Hope that's okay?]
And Stanley? He was all in:
[Loretta's asleep. I'll head over now.]
[My size is 3XL. Don't get the wrong one.]
[It's fine. You two have always been my responsibility.]
I stood there, frozen.
Then I called him back in from the living room, where he'd been helping Luca open gifts.
He didn't deny it. Just hugged me and started rambling.
"Hallie's Howard's widow. I promised I'd look out for her and Archie. I know I messed up. It won't happen again."
We'd been together ten years. Luca had just turned five.
Ending a marriage over a few texts felt dramatic.
So I let it slide. Believed him. We even went out to celebrate Luca's birthday.
Then his phone lit up on the table:
[Stanley, the kid's crying for his dad before bed. I can't calm him down.]
Stanley shoved his chair back and walked out—no hesitation.
I looked at Luca. He was startled at the noise.
And just like that, divorce didn't feel so dramatic anymore.