I was left in utter shock when I found out the real reason my wife wanted me to stay away from our daughter for a while.

So we learned new rules for this strange new world:

1. We protect Allie’s heart first.
   Whatever we feel about each other stays between us, not within earshot of her.

2. We practice kindness, even when it’s hard.
   The door to our marriage may have closed, but the door to decency must stay open.

3. We build peace, not punishment.
   Two calm homes are better than one loud war.

There are nights when the apartment is quiet and the only sound is the hum of the dishwasher. That’s when I talk to God—not with fancy words, but the tired honesty of a man who’s trying. I ask for mercy wide enough for three people. For patience when I feel small. For strength to parent gently, even when it hurts. Mostly, I ask to be protected from bitterness, because bitterness is just another kind of leaving. This isn’t the family I imagined when Sarah and I stood before our friends and said “I do.” It’s smaller now, quieter, and sometimes lonelier. But it’s still a family. There are bedtime stories again, giggles spilling into the corners, and mornings that still begin with Allie’s “Daddy!” echoing down the hall. That’s enough to keep me standing.

I can’t rewrite Sarah’s choices, and she can’t rewrite mine. What we can do is choose the kind of air our daughter breathes—calm, honest, safe. Maybe love sometimes changes shape not to disappear, but to tell the truth. Maybe God meets us not in the version of life we planned, but in the one we’re brave enough to live. Allie deserves that. And so do I. And yes—after everything, I’m still here.