The sun was setting as I pulled into my ex-wife Goldie’s driveway, casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn. I’m Nathaniel, 38 years old, and this used to be my home too. Now, it’s just another reminder of how much has changed.

Goldie and I split up eight months ago, but we’ve been trying our best to keep things civil for our kids, Sarah and Jack. They’re seven and five—just little ones, really—caught in the middle of this mess we created.

So far, we’ve managed to co-parent without too much drama: school pickups, weekend trades, shared birthday parties. But nothing could have prepared me for what went down that evening.

I’d stopped by to pick up some documents I’d forgotten during my last visit. As I killed the engine, I spotted Sarah and Jack out front with a little table, stacked with cookies and a jumble of toys.

My heart swelled. Look at my kids, taking initiative!

I climbed out of the car, ruffling Jack’s hair. “Hey, what’s all this, champ?”

Sarah’s face lit up. “We’re raising money for a special cause, Daddy!”

I grinned and reached for my wallet. “How much for a cookie?”

“Three dollars!” Jack declared proudly.

I chuckled. “Three bucks? Must be some pretty special cookies.”

Sarah grew serious. “It’s for something really important.”

That’s when I noticed—Goldie hadn’t come out. Strange. She usually popped out to wave, no matter how awkward things were between us.

“Be right back, kiddos,” I said, heading toward the front door.

Inside, nostalgia hit me hard: the faint scent of Goldie’s vanilla candles, the steady tick of the grandfather clock. For a moment, it felt like I had stepped back into my old life.

“Goldie?” I called out. “What are the kids raising money for?”

She appeared from the kitchen, looking tired, with flour dusting her cheek. “What? I thought they were in the backyard.”

When I told her what I’d seen, she sighed, rubbing her temples. Old habits surfaced—me accusing her of not paying attention, her firing back about me being too critical. But we stopped ourselves. This wasn’t about us.

“Let’s just go see,” I said.

On the porch, the kids looked up at us, beaming with innocence. I knelt by the table. “So, tell me, what’s the cause?”

Jack’s eyes were wide and trusting. “We’re raising money to buy a new Daddy!”

The words hit like a freight train. My stomach lurched. “What did you say?”

Goldie froze, her face draining of color. “What? No—no, that’s not—”

“Mommy said Daddy is sick in the head,” Sarah chimed in, “so we need a new one.”

It felt like the ground opened beneath me. My eyes flicked to Goldie—horror mirrored in hers. She shook her head fiercely. “No, sweeties. That’s not what I meant. Daddy isn’t sick, and you don’t need a new one. He’s always your Daddy.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. “That’s right. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be your Daddy. Nothing can ever change that.”

But their little faces—confused, hurt—were like daggers. Somehow, in trying to shield them from our problems, we’d made them think I was being replaced.

We sat on the front steps as the sky turned indigo, explaining over and over that divorce didn’t mean they’d lose me. Both of us—together—told them that they were loved beyond measure, that nothing they did caused this, that we’d always be their parents.

Still, Sarah’s quiet question pierced the night: “But if Daddy’s not sick… why can’t he live with us anymore?”

I glanced at Goldie, and for once, there was no anger between us—only shared heartbreak.

“Sometimes,” I said softly, “grown-ups can’t live together without hurting each other. But that doesn’t change how much we love you.”

Jack’s lip trembled. “Did we do something bad?”

Goldie and I answered at the same time. “No. Never.”

I pulled them close, feeling their small bodies tremble with sobs. “This isn’t your fault. Not even a little.”

Sarah wiped her tears, whispering, “We just want things to go back to normal.”

Goldie’s voice cracked. “I know, sweetheart. But we’ll make a new normal. One where you still have Mommy and Daddy, always.”

Then Jack looked up, his voice so small it nearly broke me: “But why can’t you just love each other again?”

There it was—the question with no good answer. I looked at Goldie. She looked at me. And for the first time in a long time, I wished I had the words.