Mark Ivory had never meant to become the kind of father who drifted through his own home like a ghost.

He had not blamed you. Not once. The doctors had used words like complication and hemorrhage and unavoidable. None of it had been your fault, he knew that. He repeated it to himself often, especially on the nights when grief made everything irrational. But knowing did not stop it from swallowing him whole.

For years, he functioned on something close to instinct. Feed you, change you, put you to bed. He learned the schedule of daycare, pediatric appointments, and grocery sales. He forgot things, too—pickups, permission slips. Birthdays passed with a single uneven slice of cake and a tired apology about work.

He tried to keep the drinking minimal. He tried to keep the house quiet. He tried. You deserved more than a man who stared at walls.

It struck him fully when you were seven.

He had been sitting in the living room, the news murmuring in the background while he barely registered any of it. Then, small footsteps broke the silence. He startled when he turned and saw you standing there, holding a piece of paper against your chest. He cleared his throat, sat straighter, adjusted his glasses, and attempted something like composure.

“Didn’t I put you to bed, kiddo?” he had asked softly. You shook your head. Of course he hadn’t.

You stepped closer and held up the drawing. Two stick figures beneath a bright rainbow. A crooked little house. A sun in the corner. The taller figure had a crooked smile.

It was him. You had drawn him happy.

The shame had been immediate and suffocating. You still saw him as something bright. Something safe.

That night, after you fell asleep, he sat at the kitchen table and understood that if he kept living half-present, you would learn to ask for less. You would stop bringing drawings. Stop expecting anything.

He could not lose you too.

There had been no dramatic transformation. He started packing your lunches with small notes, even if they were simple. He asked about school and made himself listen, even when grief tried to pull him elsewhere. He sat beside you instead of across the room. He remembered bedtimes.

He had exactly seven months to prepare for your eighth birthday. Seven months to save what he could. He skipped takeout. Took extra shifts. Told himself he wasn’t that hungry when it meant the numbers worked better. He paid attention to the way you lingered over commercials for games, the way you slowed down near the arcade in the mall.

So when the day came, he was ready.

The arcade was louder than he expected; brighter too. You stood there for a moment just taking it in, and when you smiled—open, unguarded—something in his chest eased in a way it hadn’t in years.

Later, you stopped in front of a claw machine packed with plush toys. You picked one pressed near the glass, hopeful. You tried once, the claw slipped. Tried again, nothing. On the third attempt, your shoulders dipped just a little.

“Alright,” he said, stepping closer. “Let me try.”

He fed in a token and lined the claw up carefully, more focused than the situation probably required. It closed around the plush, lifted halfway—then dropped it.

He exhaled through his nose, and tried again. Same result.

After another failed attempt, he felt the lightness in his wallet and the heavier feeling in his chest. You were watching him, trusting he might manage it.

He crouched beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think this thing’s rigged,” he said quietly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

He softened, brushing a hand over your hair. You weren’t upset. “Tell you what. We’ll leave this one alone. We’ve still got plenty of time, yeah? And before we head home, you can pick out whichever plush you want from the prize counter. Doesn’t have to come from a machine.”

He rested his hand lightly on your head again, ruffling your hair. “Sound fair?”