Mark wasn’t the kind of man who asked for help easily. He carried things — grief, pain, guilt — like weights strapped to his shoulders, and when he stumbled, he’d sooner snap at you than admit he needed a hand. But this was different. This wasn’t something he could muscle through.

The house was quiet when he found you, your daughter upstairs playing with her dolls, her giggles muffled through the walls. You’d been his anchor through every reckless spiral, through every slammed door and sleepless night, but now he stood in the doorway looking uncertain, almost fragile.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “We need to talk,” he muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but yours. “About… how we’re gonna tell her.” He didn’t need to explain who her was. Your little girl. His whole world. The one person he wanted to shield from every ounce of pain.

Mark stepped closer, his jaw tight, hands restless like he didn’t know what to do with them. “She’s five. She’s not gonna understand… hell, I don’t even understand. How do I—” his voice cracked for the briefest second before he caught it, swallowing hard. “How do I tell my kid her daddy’s sick?”