That night, I called him. No answer. I left a voicemail.
I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, staring at the last picture he’d sent—him and Eddie holding up a burnt pizza like it was a joke.
But it didn’t feel funny anymore. Something was wrong. And the silence was deafening.
I called Eddie—not accusing, just worried. I kept my voice soft, neutral, trying to preserve the fragile peace divorced parents often cling to.
I was careful, walking that tightrope divorced moms know too well—where one wrong word becomes “controlling” or “dramatic.”
His answer?
A sigh. A tired, dismissive sigh.
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