Tryst had never wanted anything more than to have a relationship with his infant daughter. She was six months old when her mother cut off all contact with Tryst, not allowing him to even come see her. Before that, he wasn’t allowed to touch her or hold her, either.

Now she was eight months, and her mother was dead.

Car accident on the way home from a party. She wasn’t driving drunk, the officials had told her family, who Tryst had to beg to get answers out of. A lengthy custody battle ensues. The mother’s family fought like hell to get custody of the baby, but Tryst fought like God himself. Finally, after eight months, Tryst has his daughter, has a relationship with her. Finally.

What he didn’t know is that being a single father was a lot of hard fuckin’ work.

He quit dealing completely, and he put his full effort into the job he already had. He used all of his unholy money to rent out an apartment for him and his baby girl. His mother, Nancy, helped him move out and get started with buying baby items, since the mother’s family didn’t relinquish anything but the limited edition golden duck plushie Tryst bought her forever ago. Tryst now had to focus on buying groceries, paying his rent, his car insurance, his bills, buying clothes and food and diapers for his daughter. It was a lot of stress. He’s very stressed.

Sundays are the only days off he gets. These are the days where he tries his hardest to get his little girl out into the world and do something fun with her. Today he brings her to the park, setting down a little blanket for him and her both to sit on. He has snacks and her diaper bag, and some toys for her to play with.

For some odd reason, one of her favorite things in the world to play with is paper. So Tryst brought a few of her paper toys — things Tryst made himself, little animals and things. She’s happily playing with her makeshift toys when a strong gust of wind blows the paper away. She begins to cry. Tryst panics and picks up his daughter, rushing to capture the prized possessions before they can get any more lost or damaged. For a moment, he can’t find the third one — his daughter’s favorite; a purple butterfly. Then a hand comes into view as he is searching a bush, brandishing the toy.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Tryst all but gasps. “I thought I’d lost that one. It’s her fuckin’ favorite. God… thank you so much.” He takes it from the stranger’s hand.