“Of course,” I said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Cooper, who had been playing in the living room, heard her voice and came running in like a little whirlwind. He hit her at full speed, and she caught him, laughing that familiar laugh of hers that used to fill our house with warmth.
I watched them for a moment, feeling a pang of something — longing, maybe? — before I shook it off. It was just the way things were now. Nothing more.
I went back to the kitchen and finished making dinner, calling out, “There’s enough pasta if you want to stay.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
“It’s just pasta, Diane.”
She stayed for dinner. Cooper talked non-stop about a documentary he had watched on dinosaurs, completely oblivious to the tension hanging between Diane and me. Diane listened intently, just as she always did, and I couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt — how comfortable she looked in my space again. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed.
After dinner, Cooper asked if Diane could stay to watch a movie. I looked at her, and then she looked at me. We exchanged a glance, one that carried more weight than I realized.
“It’s up to your dad,” she said, her voice soft.
“It’s fine,” I said, giving in. Why not? It was just a movie, right?
We sat on the couch, Cooper nestled between us as we watched The Incredibles. Cooper fell asleep about forty minutes from the end, just like he used to when he was younger, his head resting against Diane’s shoulder. That was the moment when everything seemed to slip back into place, like I could still hear the echoes of our old life. The life where we were a family, a unit, a team.
But things were different now. Things had changed.
