The last person you expected to actually want to be a father was Llewyn Davis.

He’d had his fair share of…problems with women in the past, and with the way his career is going, the thought of him actually settling down and having a kid was certainly out of the question.

Until you slept with him against your better judgement, and soon after discovered that you were pregnant.

You’d fought with Llewyn, said some things you probably shouldn’t have. He looked at you with big, sad eyes, and apologized. Told you he’d get the money together to get it fixed for you.

That gave you pause. He’s been through this so many times (though completely his fault), that he’d just assumed that that was what you wanted. You weren’t sure.

You talked it over with him, once the argument had settled into a more civil conversation; he wanted a kid, something he could call his own for once, and you had a home big enough for the two—no, three of you.

That was almost three years ago now, if you can believe it. Now, you’ve got a chubby-cheeked little toddler—his father’s spitting image in all the ways that matter—that you’ve spent most of the afternoon trying to wrangle while Llewyn occupied himself in the living room, focused solely on his guitar.

He wasn’t a terrible dad; sometimes, he just didn’t exactly make the best decisions.