“Want to talk?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
That was progress too.
By February, Dad told me he and Renee were separating formally.
I cried.
That surprised me.
He held me.
“You're allowed to be sad.”
“I thought I wanted this.”
“You can want something and still grieve what it costs.”
I missed Malik and Zoe.
I missed Renee’s pancakes.
Her terrible singing.
The way she made Dad laugh.
I missed the version of family I thought we had.
Knowing it was partly false did not make the loss imaginary.
Dad cried too.
He had believed he would grow old with Renee.
Instead, they filed for divorce.
It took eight months.
No scandal.
No dramatic courtroom showdown.
Property.
Accounts.
Schedules.
The house remained ours because Dad owned it before marriage and settlement resolved shared contributions.
Renee moved into a townhouse.
Malik and Zoe stayed connected to us.
Their father, Terrence, agreed.
At first visits were awkward.
Then less.
The three of us became siblings in a strange sideways way.
Not legally after divorce.
Emotionally, yes.
Renee did not come.
Not for a long time.
The blue heart came back from Helen in March.
Mounted inside a shallow shadow box.
The two main pieces were joined but the fracture remained obvious.
A thin gold line ran along it.
Not traditional kintsugi exactly.
Helen used archival backing and gold-tinted resin.
On the back, Mom’s inscription remained readable:
AMARA — YOU WILL ALWAYS KNOW THE WAY HOME.
The crack passed directly through HOME.
I hated that for one minute.
Then I loved it.
Not because damage was beautiful.
Because the message survived.
Dad mounted it in my room.
Years later it moved with me to college.
Then my first apartment.
Then my house.
It hangs there now.
When I was fourteen, Renee asked whether I would meet her.
I said no.
At fifteen, she asked again.
No.
At sixteen, Zoe asked me.
Different.
“Mom wants to apologize in person.”
“She already wrote.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Zoe shrugged.
“Maybe because she wants you to see she means it.”
That irritated me.
“I don't need to help her feel forgiven.”
Zoe flinched.
I immediately regretted tone.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
“She probably does want that.”
We sat on my bed.
Zoe was eleven then.