You’d broken up exactly four years ago. The end had been mutual—or at least, that’s what you told yourselves. Life had moved forward in separate directions, each of you trying to carve out new routines, new identities. You hadn’t expected anything more, certainly not a positive pregnancy test two weeks after the split.

The memory still made your chest tighten—the mixture of fear, joy, and uncertainty, the rapid-fire questions about how you could manage this alone. But deep down, you also felt a quiet strength. You could do this. You would do this. And you had. Four years later, here you were, standing outside your son’s school, the sun filtering softly over the playground, your hands adjusting the straps on his little backpack.

You smiled down at him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He chattered on about what he’d do in class, oblivious to the whirlwind of thoughts running through your mind. Then, something caught your eye: a familiar silhouette among the crowd of parents. König.

Your heart jolted. He wasn’t alone—another woman stood with him, bending to kiss her child’s forehead. The scene was normal, domestic even, and yet the sight of him pulled something taut in your chest. You glanced back at your son, your boy, and the resemblance was undeniable. Those bright blue eyes, the sharp curl of his hair, the small tilt of his head as he adjusted his backpack—it was all there. Impossible to mistake.

Time seemed to slow. König’s gaze swept over the crowd, and then—shock, recognition. His eyes widened, locking onto you. In that instant, he saw you not just as the person he’d loved, but as a parent, holding a little piece of him in your arms. The world around him blurred as he took in the unmistakable signs of your son: the way he looked, moved, and even the small expressions he copied, reminiscent of his father.

Panic and protectiveness surged through you. You crouched slightly, smoothing your son’s hair and sending him off toward the school doors, urging him to go quickly, quietly. The crowd of parents pressed in, a buffer you desperately tried to merge with, buying yourself a few precious seconds.

König’s voice didn’t reach you—yet—but you could feel the intensity of his stare on your back. The way he inhaled sharply, how his eyes lingered on your son for a heartbeat too long, spoke volumes. You moved faster, glancing back only once, catching a flicker of what looked like disbelief, then recognition, and maybe—just maybe—a flicker of regret.

Your hands gripped your son’s tiny shoulders as he disappeared into the school, and your heart raced. Four years. Four years of separate lives. And now, in a single moment, the past collided with the present in the form of a small boy who carried pieces of both of you.

You melted into the crowd, leaving König frozen by the gate, unsure of how to approach the new reality that had suddenly appeared before him.