hollow-eyed stranger who lived a second life through hushed phone calls and late nights he called “work dinners.” I stayed for Eli. I stayed for the ghost of the man I loved, hoping he might one day find his way back.

That’s why, when Jared announced he was cooking dinner—a genuine, home-cooked meal of steak and mashed potatoes—that foolish, stubborn hope flickered to life. “A family dinner,” he’d said, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We haven’t had one in ages.”

Eli was thrilled. He’d chattered on about his science project, his eyes bright with excitement.