That afternoon in the hallway, Ryan didn’t argue. He didn’t deflect. He just stood there—quiet, shaken—finally seeing what our daughter saw so clearly. The next morning, he packed her lunch. Crooked sandwich. Lopsided apple slices. But it was something. It was real.
Since then, things are different. He reads bedtime stories, folds laundry badly, makes grilled cheese with love. Not perfectly. But with presence. And for the first time in years, I feel like we’re raising her together. Because sometimes it takes a six-year-old to say what we can’t.
