The little boy was sitting on the carpet surrounded by colorful blocks, carefully stacking them into a crooked tower.
“Good morning, buddy,” Andrew said.
Noah looked up. His honey-colored eyes—exactly like Olivia’s—watched his father quietly.
“Good morning, Dad.”
Andrew sat on the edge of the bed instead of joining him on the floor.
“A new nanny is coming today. Her name is Grace.”
Noah nodded slowly. He was used to it by now. Nannies came and went like passing seasons.
“I need you to behave,” Andrew added.
“I always behave, Dad.”
And he did.
Noah was calm—almost too calm for a child his age. He rarely cried, rarely demanded attention, and never threw tantrums. Sometimes Andrew wondered if that was normal for a three-year-old.
“I know,” Andrew said softly. “You’re a good boy.”
Noah smiled briefly, a shy smile that faded almost immediately.
Andrew wanted to say more. He wanted to ask if Noah missed his mother. He wanted to hug him. But the words stayed trapped in his throat, as they always did.
“I have to go now,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Bye, Dad.”
Andrew left the room and closed the door behind him. In the hallway he leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply.
Why was it so hard?