She stayed. During dinner, Mason talked endlessly about a dinosaur documentary he had seen. Laura listened the way she always had, smiling and asking questions. Watching the two of them together felt strangely normal, almost like nothing between us had ever changed.

Afterward, Mason asked if she could stay and watch a movie with us.

Laura glanced at me. “That’s up to your dad.”

I sighed lightly. “It’s fine.”

We sat on the couch and watched The Incredibles. Mason curled up between us like he used to when he was younger. About forty minutes before the end of the movie, he fell asleep against Laura’s shoulder.

For a moment, everything felt painfully familiar—the warmth of the living room, the quiet breathing of our son, and the feeling that we were still a family.

But we weren’t.

When the movie ended, Laura looked down at Mason with a soft expression I remembered well. Then she slowly stood up.

“I should head out,” she said.

“It’s almost ten,” I pointed out. “And Durham’s forty minutes away.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I shook my head. “Just stay here tonight. The couch pulls out. You’ll be back tomorrow morning anyway.”

She studied my face for a moment before nodding.

“Okay.”

I set up the pull-out couch and left extra blankets on the armrest. After tucking Mason into bed, I went to my room. It felt strange having Laura in the house again, even temporarily. Part of me wondered how two people who once shared everything could end up as distant as we were now.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

Around 12:40 AM, I woke up.

I’ve always been a light sleeper—years of parenting will do that. Normally, when I wake up at night, the house is silent.

But this time I heard something.

Footsteps.

I stayed perfectly still, listening. The sound was coming from the living room. A faint glow from the kitchen light slipped under my bedroom door.

Then I heard a whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

It was Laura’s voice.

But it wasn’t the quiet whisper of someone trying not to wake a child. It sounded heavy, full of guilt and regret.

I held my breath.

Then I heard another voice.

A man’s voice.

“It’s not enough,” he said quietly. “You can’t keep running back to him every time things get difficult.”

My chest tightened.

There was someone else in my house.

A soft sound followed—a kiss.

I froze in bed, unsure what to do. My mind raced. Should I get up and confront them? Should I pretend I hadn’t heard anything?