The neighbor's name was Mrs. Peterson. She lived three houses down, and she made the best gingerbread cookies in the neighborhood. She knocked on our door at seven-thirty, a tin of cookies balanced in her mittened hands and a paper Santa hat perched on her gray hair. She was smiling, the kind of warm, genuine smile that made you feel seen.

I opened the door. Brayden was beside me, holding my hand. He'd been standing there for the past hour, watching the door like he was waiting for something to change.

"Merry Christmas, Erin!" Mrs. Peterson's voice was bright, crackling with holiday cheer. "I made extras this year. Thought you and Nikolai might want to—" She stopped, her eyes landing on the luggage in the hallway. "Oh! Are you having guests?" Her gaze shifted between Brayden and me, confusion creeping into her expression. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude. I just thought..." She trailed off, looking at Brayden's pale face, the way he leaned against me.

"No intrusion, Margaret." Nikolai's voice came from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, a wine glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. Lilith stood behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She was smiling too, but it was different—polished, practiced. "Just some distant relatives from out of state. They're just passing through for the holidays. Aren't you, Erin?"

I felt Brayden's hand tighten in mine. I looked down at him. He was staring up at Nikolai, his small face very still. Then he looked up at me, his eyes dark and endless.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. The words stuck in my throat like thorns.

Mrs. Peterson's smile faltered. "Oh, I see. Well, I won't interrupt your family gathering. Just wanted to drop these off." She held out the tin of cookies. Her eyes lingered on Brayden, on the way he swayed slightly, on the pallor of his skin. "Is everything alright, dear? You look..."

"Everything's fine," Nikolai cut in smoothly, taking the tin from her hands. "Thank you for thinking of us. Merry Christmas." He stepped forward, effectively blocking the doorway, and Mrs. Peterson took the hint.

"Yes, well. Merry Christmas to you all." She glanced at me one last time, her brow furrowed with concern, and then she was gone, her footsteps crunching on the salted walkway.

Nikolai closed the door. He turned to Lilith, his face softening. "That was close. I don't need the whole neighborhood asking questions." He set the wine bottle down on the entryway table and poured a glass for her. "Here. You look like you could use this."

Lilith took the glass, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you. You're always taking care of me."

I stood there, still holding Brayden's hand. He was trembling now, a fine, almost invisible tremor that ran through his small body. I squeezed his hand gently, but he didn't look at me. He was watching Nikolai pour more wine, laughing softly at something Lilith whispered in his ear.

Over the next few days, Lilith settled into our home like she'd always belonged there. She moved through the rooms with a quiet confidence, rearranging things—the throw pillows on the couch, the dishes in the kitchen cabinets, the photos on the mantle. She did it with a smile, a soft "Don't you think this looks better?" as she swapped out Brayden's favorite mug for one of her own.

She took over the living room sofa, curling up there with her laptop while Indie sprawled on the floor, coloring in Brayden's books. When Brayden reached for his own stuffed bear, the one he'd slept with since he was a baby, Indie snatched it away, squealing with delight.

"Indie, honey," Lilith said gently, "you have to share. That's not yours."

"But I want it!" Indie clutched the bear to her chest, her small face screwed up in determination.

Lilith sighed, looking at Brayden with a mixture of pity and impatience. "Brayden, you're the big boy here. Can't you let her have it? Just for a little while?"

Brayden looked at the bear in Indie's hands. His bear. The one with the missing eye, the one he'd cried into when the machines beeped too loud at night. He looked at Lilith, then at Nikolai, who was watching the whole thing with a bored expression.

"It's okay," Brayden said quietly. "She can have it."

That night, I stood in the dark hallway outside the guest room, my fist pressed to my mouth. Through the thin walls, I could hear Lilith's voice, soft and amused, talking on the phone.

"No, the wife is harmless. She just mopes around. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost."

There was a pause, and then she laughed—a low, intimate sound. "Don't worry. Nikolai's completely under my thumb. He doesn't even see her anymore. It's kind of pathetic, actually. The way she follows him around like a lost puppy."

I stood there, my fist still pressed to my mouth, and listened to her laugh. The sound scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper.

At dinner, Nikolai sat at the head of the table, Lilith to his right, Indie to his left. I sat across from him, Brayden beside me. The table was set with the good china—the set Nikolai's mother had given us for our wedding. Lilith had insisted on using it, saying it was a special occasion.

Nikolai cut Indie's chicken into small, perfect pieces. He made airplane noises with the fork, zooming the food toward her mouth while she giggled and opened wide. "Here comes the airplane! Open wide, little pilot!"

Across the table, Brayden watched. His hands were too weak to hold his own spoon steady, so I fed him in silence, one small bite at a time. He didn't complain. He didn't cry. He just watched, his eyes following the fork as it made its journey from plate to mouth, over and over again.

Nikolai never once glanced in Brayden's direction. Not once. It was like he didn't exist.

Morning light came in gray through the kitchen window. Nikolai stood by the counter, coffee mug in one hand, Lilith's phone in the other. He was laughing—that easy, careless laugh I used to fall asleep to. Lilith leaned against the fridge in one of my old cardigans, watching him laugh like she'd made the joke herself.

Brayden walked in.

He moved slowly, one hand trailing the wall for balance. His pajama pants pooled around his ankles, too big now, no matter how many times I took them in. The morning light didn't help him. It found every hollow in his face, every blue vein at his temple, and put them on display.

He stopped at his father's side and tugged the sleeve of his shirt.

Nikolai glanced down. Just a flick of his eyes, the kind you'd give a fly you were about to swat away. "What is it, buddy?" He was already looking back at the phone.

Brayden didn't answer right away. He stood there, small and steady, and waited until his father looked at him again. Really looked. It took three seconds. Three seconds that felt like standing at the bottom of a well.

"Goodbye, Mister," Brayden said. His voice didn't shake. "We won't bother you anymore."

Nothing in the kitchen moved. The coffee maker hissed behind them. Lilith's smile stayed frozen on her face, like she hadn't caught up yet to what she'd just heard.

Nikolai blinked. "What—Brayden, what does that mean?"

Brayden didn't answer. He turned around. He walked back toward me, his small feet careful on the tile, like the floor might not hold him. I was standing in the doorway, and I didn't move to meet him halfway. I let him come to me. That was the last thing I could give him—the choice to walk on his own.

He took my hand. His fingers were so cold.

Behind me, I heard Nikolai say, half to Lilith, half to no one, "Kids say weird stuff, right?" And then he laughed again, short and confused, and went back to the phone.

I held the manila envelope against my hip. I walked past him to the desk in the study, where the contracts sat in a neat stack, flagged with yellow tabs from his assistant. I slid the envelope into the middle of the pile, between page four and page five, exactly where the yellow tabs were thickest.

"Sign the flagged pages before you leave today," I said. My voice came out flat. Calm. A voice I didn't recognize as mine.

Nikolai wandered in a minute later, still scrolling. He sat at the desk, picked up his pen, and flipped through the stack without reading a single line. Page after page. Signature after signature. His hand moved like a machine that had done this motion a thousand times and trusted it completely.

He got to my pages. He didn't slow down.

His pen scratched across the last line of our divorce decree, and he didn't even see it. He capped the pen, tossed the stack back onto the desk, and stood up. "Done. Can you have Diane messenger these to the office?"

"I'll take care of it," I said.

He was already walking away, phone buzzing in his hand. "Thanks, babe."

I stood there a moment, looking at his signature. Small, careless, the same signature he used for restaurant checks. I gathered the papers, slid them into my bag, and went upstairs.

I packed two suitcases. I didn't cry while I did it. I folded Brayden's clothes first—the soft ones, the ones that wouldn't hurt his skin. Then mine. I packed his red sweater last, laying it flat on top like a blessing.

That afternoon, with Nikolai gone and the house quiet except for Indie's cartoons droning through the wall, I sat on the edge of Brayden's bed. He was propped against his pillows, his bear tucked into the crook of his arm.

"Baby," I said. "We're going on a trip."

His eyes found mine, dull with tiredness but curious. "Where?"

I pulled the picture book from my bag, the one I'd bought months ago and hidden in my closet, and opened it to the page I'd worn soft with turning. Blue-white ice. Rivers of it, cracked and glowing, stretching toward a sky full of color.

"Somewhere beautiful," I said. "Somewhere you've always wanted to see."

His small hand reached out and touched the page, careful, like he might break it. "The ice mountains?" he breathed. "For real?"

I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. My throat was tight, but I kept my voice even. "For real."

He smiled then. A real smile, the kind I hadn't seen in weeks, the kind that reached all the way up into his eyes. "Just us?"

"Just us," I said.

He closed his eyes, still smiling, and pulled his bear closer. "I want to see the lights too. The green ones. From the video you showed me."

"You'll see them," I promised. "I promise you'll see them."

That night, after he fell asleep, I sat at the kitchen table and booked two tickets to Fairbanks. One way. I didn't buy a return.

I told no one. Not Lilith, humming to herself in the guest room. Not Nikolai, wherever he was, laughing at something that wasn't his son's goodbye.

Just me, and the boy upstairs who still believed in ice mountains and green lights, and in his mother's promise that he would see them both.