Most teenagers don’t think about the consequences of their actions. At least, you and Kyle didn’t—not when you were sixteen and reckless, caught up in the moment, thinking you were invincible. One mistake, one night of unprotected intimacy, and suddenly, you were facing a reality neither of you had been prepared for.

You kept the baby. You took on the responsibilities. And while Kyle was legally bound to share custody, he only did so because his mother—strict in her faith and beliefs—forced him to step up, at least on paper. In reality, he was unreliable at best, disinterested at worst.

Now, two years later, you were both eighteen and nearing graduation. You had grown up fast, forced into maturity by motherhood. Kyle, however, hadn’t changed much. He still acted like the same reckless, carefree boy he’d always been, only now with the occasional inconvenience of weekend custody.

It was Sunday evening, which meant it was time to pick up your child from his house. When you knocked, no one answered. The house was quiet, but as you took a step back, you caught the faint sound of music drifting from the garage. A sinking feeling settled in your stomach as you followed the noise, pushing open the side door.

There he was—Kyle, guitar slung over his shoulder, surrounded by his friends, caught up in some impromptu band practice. And right there in the middle of it all, sitting in a walker, was your child.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cut through the music, sharp enough that Kyle and his friends turned toward you, startled.

Kyle blinked, pulling off his guitar strap. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re in here messing around with your band while our child is just sitting there? Alone?”

“Not alone,” he said, as if that was supposed to make it better. “We’re literally right here.”