Since the divorce, it had been just us. Quiet routines. Safe streets. A town where people smiled and meant it.
I trusted that safety.
Then one sentence made it wobble.
That afternoon, I watched him more closely than usual.
He came home, dropped his shoes by the door, called out, “Hey, Dad,” like nothing was different.
But I noticed the exhaustion behind his eyes. Not the kind that comes from staying up late—but the kind that settles deeper.
“How was school?” I asked.
“Good,” Noah said quickly. Too quickly. “Had a history quiz. I think I did okay.”
“Anything else?”
He opened the fridge, stared inside longer than necessary. “Not really. Same stuff.”
I watched him drink water like he’d been thirsty all day. His shoulders curved inward slightly, like he was bracing.
“Mrs. Caldwell said she saw you walking home yesterday,” I said, carefully.
He didn’t flinch.
That was the problem.
He smiled—smooth, practiced.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I came home to grab my binder. Mr. Lawson said it was fine.”
It made sense.
Just enough sense.
My gut tightened.
“You didn’t mention it,” I said.
He shrugged. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
That phrase again.
Didn’t think it mattered.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.