Three Chances, Then Gone

Did he ever stop to think Luca might cry too?

That maybe our son wanted his dad there to help blow out the candles?

Whatever. Doesn't matter now.

We're getting a divorce anyway.

I walked past him into Luca's room and shut the door.

Stanley pressed a hand against it, his face torn.

"Babe, I know I messed up. It won't happen again, I swear. Please don't be mad. This is the last time—promise!"

I smiled.

"Yeah? You said that nine hours ago."

Silence fell—so thick I could hear both our hearts pounding.

For once, Stanley actually looked rattled.

"You know Howard and I grew up together. As his best friend, I just couldn't..."

He sighed, trying to look serious.

"Give me three more chances. After that, I'll fix things with Hallie and her kid. I'll focus on you and Luca. Please—just trust me one more time."

From inside the room, the bed creaked.

Then came soft, muffled sobs.

Luca was awake.

I turned. Through the crack in the door, I saw him curled up, eyes red, pretending to sleep.

I didn't say a word.

Fine.

Three more chances.

Not for Stanley—for Luca to have time to say goodbye.

After that?

This marriage. This house.

He's out.

***

The next morning, I slept in.

Stanley didn't bolt out the door like he usually did. Instead, he made this whole big breakfast for me and Luca.

Couldn't remember the last time he actually cooked.

Three years back, he used to wake up early just to make sure we ate. Said it hurt watching us pick at scraps.

Then Hallie lost her husband—and that whole routine vanished.

He started ducking out earlier every day. Breakfast turned from homemade to drive-thru, then to frozen junk stacked in the freezer.

The first time I chucked one of those rock-hard meals in the trash, I told myself, "No big deal. It's just breakfast."

But now? I get it. All those little 'no big deals' were him checking out of this family, one breakfast at a time.

I shook the thought off and grabbed Luca's hand as we got ready for school.

Stanley froze, then scrambled to grab a glass of milk and some eggs, stepping in our way.

"You haven't eaten. I got up at five to make this. Just have a bite."

Luca's lip wobbled. "Dad, I haven't eaten boiled eggs since I was two."

He'd choked on one once—not a big deal, but it stuck with him.

Stanley blinked, like it was just now hitting him. Then he pushed the milk forward, stiff and awkward.

"Fine. Drink the milk. I even warmed it up."

"The doctor said I'm lactose intolerant, so I can't drink milk." Luca looked up, eyes full of letdown. "Dad, you told me that."

Stanley froze.

Shot me a look, like I'd bail him out.

I looked away.

Luca was right. Stanley used to sweat every tiny detail. Always said, "Babe, you and the kid just relax—I'll handle the rest. Gotta be the perfect dad for Luca."

Now he didn't even remember the egg thing.

Guilt flashed across his face. He grabbed his keys.

"Forget breakfast. Luca, I'll drive you."

Funny—I hadn't been in his car for three months.

I opened the door, hoisted Luca into the car seat.

Just as I reached for the buckle, Stanley yanked Luca's hand and pulled him out.