He’s 38 years old, still handsome with a confident demeanor that turns heads. But to me, he’s just my father—a man I’ve never truly connected with. I’m 22 now, adopted by my mother when I was a child, taken in from an orphanage. My love is for her alone; she’s the only one who’s ever cared for me. My father? He doesn’t. His affection is reserved for his own children—my 15-year-old brother and 3-year-old sister.

Now, his swollen belly makes it impossible to ignore the fact that he’s pregnant again, this time with triplets. He adores his biological children, yet I’ve always felt like an outsider in this house.

Rain poured steadily as I spotted him outside, sitting on the porch steps. He wore only loose pants that barely stayed up under his swollen belly, heavy with triplets. In one hand, he held a cigarette, the other rested on a bottle of alcohol.

The doctor had forbidden this, but there he sat, taking slow drags and long sips. The rain dampened his hair and chest, but he didn’t seem to care. He cradled his belly absently, staring into the storm, lost in thought—or maybe just in defiance. I stayed in the shadows, watching silently, as always.