Greg believed he and Natalie had finally mastered co-parenting—until a late-night call shattered that illusion with news he never expected.
Five years. That’s how long Natalie and I were together before we finally decided to end things.
Deep down, I think we both knew it was coming, even if we never admitted it aloud. We met when we were young—perhaps too young.
By the time the initial thrill faded and reality set in, we just… stopped making the effort.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No explosive fights. Just the slow recognition that we weren’t meant for forever.
Now, we live in different states.
Separate lives. The only thing connecting us is Oliver—our three-year-old son.
He means everything to me.
I get to see him on holidays, which is something, but it’s never enough. It never feels like enough.
But I didn’t want things to turn ugly. We didn’t need lawyers or a bitter custody battle.
Natalie and I agreed on that.
Oliver didn’t deserve a home filled with fighting and tension.
That’s why we kept things civil. Every night without fail, she’d video call so I could say goodnight to Oliver.
It became a cherished ritual. Just seeing his little face light up and hearing “Night, Daddy” before bed—it made everything feel a bit more whole.
Everything was… fine.
We were making it work until I got that call.
“Greg!” Natalie’s voice came through the phone, but it wasn’t her usual steady tone.
No, she was crying. No—screaming. “Greg, our son is gone!”
I froze.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Oliver is dead!” she shouted, her words cutting through me like a knife.
I couldn’t comprehend it.
“What? What are you talking about?
How?”
Natalie was sobbing so hard it was difficult to make out her words. “He’s—he’s just gone.
Oh my God, Greg…”
I collapsed to the floor, her words crushing me.
This couldn’t be happening. Not Oliver. Not my son.
“I’m coming.
I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, forcing myself to stand, my voice unsteady.
“No,” she gasped.
“Don’t. We’ve already had the service.
He’s… been buried.”
“Buried?” I whispered, struggling to breathe.
I hung up, stunned. Staring at my phone, my fingers itched to call Natalie back and demand an explanation.
My heart pounded as questions whirled.
I hit the call button before I could think twice.
The phone rang once, twice, and then—
“Greg,” Natalie answered, her voice hoarse, barely audible.
“What the hell, Natalie?” I said, my voice cracking. “Why didn’t you tell me? If something happened to Oliver, if he was hurt or sick, you should have called me!”
“I—I couldn’t,” she stuttered, her breathing uneven.
“You couldn’t?” I shouted, pacing the room.
“I’m his father, Natalie!
I should have known, should have been there! What even happened?
He was fine yesterday!”
“It happened so fast,” she wept, her words broken and rushed. “I didn’t know how to—”
“How to what, Natalie?
How to tell me our son is gone?” My voice faltered, anger and grief washing over me.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to hear that news this way?”
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