They’d been married for 37 years. Sure, they had their little spats—mostly about Dad’s loud snoring or Mom’s endless need to rearrange the furniture—but divorce? That had never crossed my mind. They were solid. Or so I thought.That’s why, when someone knocked loudly on our door that Tuesday night, the word divorce wasn’t even on my radar.

It was almost 11 p.m., and I was already in my pajamas, smoothing cocoa butter on my belly like always. Peter was upstairs brushing his teeth. The knocking was fast and urgent, like something bad had happened.I shuffled to the door as fast as my pregnant body would let me, heart thumping. When Ipeeked through the peephole, my father was standing there, the porch light casting deep shadows on his tired face.“Dad?” I opened the door, confused. “What are you doing here this late?”Without a word, he walked right past me, clutching a small overnight bag. His gray hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it all night.“Is everything okay? Is Mom alright?” I asked, following him into the living room.

He dropped onto our couch and stared at his hands for a long time. I lowered myself slowlyinto the armchair across from him, trying not to freak out.Finally, in a low voice, he muttered, “I’m divorcing your mother. I just… I can’t stay in that house anymore.”I blinked at him. “Wait—what? You and Mom? After 37 years?”He nodded but didn’t meet my eyes. “You’ll find out soon enough. I just need space. I’m heading to the lake house tomorrow.”I stared at him like he’d grown another head. “The lake house? The same one where we roasted marshmallows and caught frogs every summer? The one where you and Mom used to go for your anniversary every year?”“Yeah,” he said. “I need some peace. Some time alone.”Peter came downstairs right then, toothbrush still in hand, and looked shocked when he saw my dad.“Richard? Everything alright?”My dad gave a small nod. “Just needed a place to crash for the night. Hope that’s okay.”“Of course,” Peter said quickly. “The guest room is ready.”