The apartment was warmer now—filled with more furniture, more routine, more light. But a strange heaviness had begun to settle in the air. It showed in their mother’s silence when the mail arrived. In the tired lines under her eyes when she thought no one was looking. In the quiet sighs at night when she closed her door just a little slower than usual.

  The papers had started coming in months before. Thick envelopes stamped with official-looking crests, long paragraphs no one explained. At first, he hadn’t understood why they made her so nervous. But soon, even he could tell: something was being decided.

  Something big.

  Their father had reappeared—no longer just in weekend phone calls or short visits. Now he wanted something more. He wanted *them*.

  Their mother didn’t argue in front of them. Not loudly. But her voice grew firm, her jaw more tense. When she picked up the phone, her words were clipped. Legal-sounding. Tired. There were meetings, letters, and tense conversations behind closed doors.

  And then one day, court.

  He didn’t remember much about the place—just the way the hallways smelled of paper and dust, and the way the ceiling felt too tall. He sat in a waiting room with his siblings, drawing shapes on the fogged-up window while his mother paced.

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  They didn’t go inside the courtroom, but they *felt* it.

  The fight.

  When his mother returned, she looked both relieved and broken at once. She crouched in front of them, gave a tight smile, and said, “you guys will be going to see your dad… every other week.”

  Split custody.

  Half and half.

  It sounded simple in words—but it felt like something cracking.

  ---

  Their father had moved to another part of the city—not far, but not close either. The drive felt longer than it was. His new apartment was smaller, neater, colder. There weren’t as many toys there, not as much laughter. The rhythm was different. The walls were quiet in a different way.

  The first weekend they stayed over, it felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.

  He and his brother shared a fold-out bed in the living room. His sister got a mattress in the small second bedroom. Their father tried—he really did. He bought their favorite juice, let them choose movies, even made spaghetti the way he used to.

  But something felt off. Forced.

  He wasn’t *mean*. But he wasn’t like their mother. He didn’t understand when his brother needed quiet or when his sister didn’t want to talk. He didn’t always notice when he was being too loud or too quick to raise his voice.

  Still, they went. Every other week. Back and forth, bags packed and unpacked like clockwork.

  Some weeks felt okay. Some felt long.

  At school, he didn’t tell many people. How could he explain the weird feeling of being two people in two homes? The version of him who lived with Mom—softer, more careful—and the version who stayed with Dad—quieter, more watchful.

  It was hard. But they managed.

  He and his siblings leaned on each other even more during that time. Inside jokes, secret glances, a shared language built from growing up close and surviving change after change. They’d come home and huddle in their shared room, talking in low voices while the city moved outside their window.

  Things weren’t the same anymore.

  But at least, together, they still were.