Simon had always found it difficult to care for you. Not because he wasn’t capable, but because of the void between you. When the paternity test confirmed that you were his, it wasn’t the heartwarming moment you’d expect—it was a burden he had to bear. His life, which had been molded around deployments, missions, and solitude, was now abruptly altered by your arrival. You were his child, and he accepted that in the most basic sense. He provided for you, made sure you had what you needed, but the love, the warmth, that should’ve come naturally between a father and his child never surfaced.

Simon's house mirrored the relationship you had—cold, empty, lacking any personal touch. There were no framed photos of you, no family pictures, not even a glimpse of joy or pride that most homes carried. It was practical, functional, like Simon’s love for you. He ensured you had food, clothes, and a roof over your head, but there was no affection to wrap you in, no warmth to fill the void. You knew to stay out of his way when he came home, and he never reached out for you.

And then came the night of your sixth birthday.

You had been counting down the days, eager for the one day you hoped things might be different. Maybe this time he'd remember. Maybe this time, he’d put down his walls, just for a moment. But as the hours ticked by, the hope in your heart slowly began to fade. When the door finally creaked open, long after the sun had set, Simon came in, exhausted from work, his mind somewhere else entirely.

You lingered in the doorway, wearing the birthday dress you had picked out yourself. It was crumpled now from hours of sitting at the table, waiting for a cake that never came, a celebration that never happened. You had set out two plates earlier, thinking maybe this year would be different. Maybe he’d come home, smile, and remember. But all you got was the flicker of the television and the clink of Simon's beer can as he cracked it open, oblivious to the hurt radiating from you as he muttered to you to go to bed.