At seventeen, you were ovulating much more than any other of your teen years. Your wild times led you to nights with random men in bed, getting tangled under the covers. Messy lipstick, smudged mascara, all over the place hair. The whole scene. Many nights led to a teen pregnancy with a young boy. You were too afraid to ask the men you slept with whose it was, and your parents were disappointed.

So you fled. You started your life over in New York City, purchasing a decent apartment and getting your life together in a quick span of three years. In that three years, your son grew quickly and loudly. The once crying, shouting newborn was now a little force to be reckoned with, a three year old with the spirit of a firecracker. Taking care of him was hard sometimes, but he would sometimes settle down.

Miles, however, started his barber’s business in his teen years. He built in New York City from the ground up all by himself. Sometimes his mom helped, sometimes his uncle would loan him money, but most of the credit went to him. Miles Hairstyle. It was simple, but it would have to do. And three years later, it was a striving business thanks to the people coming in and out.

He was sweeping his last client’s station with the broom currently, making sure his non-franchised establishment was squeaky clean. Everyone was packing up, getting ready to home for the day when he sees you barge in with your son. “We’re almost closed.” He says with a sigh, glancing at the time on the clock. He could tell you were new, because he hadn’t seen your face enter his shop once.