ELIJAH'S POV
The morning air bit through my coat, a harbinger of autumn's approaching chill. Each breath clouded in short puffs, hanging in the crisp air like unspoken secrets. I stood amid the school drop-off chaos—a swirling tableau of pressed uniforms, anxious parents, and chattering children—feeling distinctly out of place.
My hand, larger and more rigid than most, clasped Charlotte's smaller one. She pressed closer to my side, her usual exuberance muted, replaced by a silence that spoke volumes about the tension brewing within our home. I knew she could sense it—the electrical charge of unresolved conflict that hummed between her mother and me, between our past and our present.
I'd mentally made a note to make a point of school drop-offs lately. Not out of sudden paternal devotion, but strategy. Every moment was a calculated move, every interaction a potential chess piece in a game far more complex than these parents could imagine.
