“How are things with your dad?” I asked Toby a few months later as we prepared dinner together.
“Good,” Toby replied casually, washing a bell pepper in the sink. “We built a giant Lego set over the weekend.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said, genuinely relieved to see him adjusting to the new dynamic.
Their interactions gradually settled into a comfortable rhythm centered on ordinary things like school projects, doctor appointments, and weekend plans. The chaos of the past finally began to fade, replaced by the comfort of a stable routine.
One afternoon, while organizing old legal papers inside my wooden desk, I found the folded drawing Toby had made for his father months earlier. The paper was slightly creased at the edges, but the bright blue airplane and crooked lettering remained vivid.
“BEST PILOT EVER,” I read softly to myself, holding the drawing in my hands.
“Do you want me to throw that in the trash?” Toby asked unexpectedly, having entered the room without me noticing.
