When Mason told me he wanted to live with his father after the divorce, I nodded and told him I understood. I even meant it. Divorce rearranges loyalties and emotions in ways adults barely comprehend, let alone children. At thirteen, Mason was old enough to form opinions and make decisions, but still young enough to believe that choosing sides was a moral duty, a way to fix something that had broken. I told myself that respecting his choice was an act of love, that giving him space would help repair the fractures in his life and in mine. I repeated this mantra often, convincing myself that restraint was the most generous gift I could offer.

The first few weeks seemed to confirm that belief. He sent pictures of late-night pancakes made with mismatched ingredients, goofy selfies with his dad, snapshots of a room he was slowly turning into a space he could call his own. There were small captions: “Check out my new setup!” or “Look at my pancakes—sort of edible!” They were light, almost cheerful. I reread them obsessively, each message a lifeline. I told myself that the tight knot in my chest was just a reflection of missing him, not evidence of any deeper problem. I clung to that idea, wrapping it around me like armor, trying to convince myself that his happiness mattered more than my fear.