Rain streaked down the cracked windowpane, tracing uneven paths like the tears you had trained yourself not to cry anymore. The apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and dollar store vanilla candles—the only kind you could afford, and even those had been a stretch. You glanced over at the tiny clock on the kitchen stove: 6:12 a.m.

“Happy Birthday, baby,” you whispered, brushing a strand of curly hair from your son’s forehead as he snoozed in a tangle of superhero blankets on the old pullout couch. “Three years old. Can you believe it?”

He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. You stared at him, your heart both full and fractured. Elijah’s cheeks were round and peaceful in sleep, still babyish in a way that made your ache. You remembered the moment he was born—raw pain, fear, love so big it nearly drowned you. Nineteen now, sixteen then. The world hadn’t slowed down for you since.

You padded quietly into the bathroom, running the tap to warm. The birthday cupcakes had to be baked before you left for your second shift. No party, no balloons. Just one wrapped toy dinosaur from the clearance bin at the thrift store and maybe a video call with Aunt Tasha during her break.

You’d just started mixing the batter when a knock came at the door.

You froze.

No one knocked. Not this early, not on this side of the building. You wiped your hands on your jeans and cracked the door open, the chain still latched.

And there he was.

Drenched in rain, holding a half-deflated blue balloon and a smile he didn’t earn.

“Hey,” Rico said, voice too casual for three years of silence. “Thought I’d come by. You know… for Eli’s birthday.”