For years, I had quietly accepted the shape of our family as it was. My husband and our son shared a closeness that felt natural, almost inevitable, and I told myself that love didn’t need to be evenly measured to be real. When they began leaving together every Friday for what I believed was soccer practice, I felt a small, private relief. It gave them time, and it gave me space. Still, a faint unease crept in when their routine became untouchable—no schedule changes, no casual stories, just the same answers, rehearsed and neat. I ignored that feeling until the Friday I stood on the empty field, listening to a confused coach tell me he’d never seen either of them before.
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