Mark sank deeper into the couch, his legs stretched out in pink, glittery princess pajamas that barely fit. His daughter sat cross-legged in front of him, her tiny hands gripping a plastic brush dipped in bright purple eyeshadow. She hummed tunelessly as she applied the color to his face with all the precision of a four-year-old artist.

“Hold still, Daddy,” she commanded, squinting at his cheek like a professional.

“I’m trying, princess, but you’re really going for it with that eyeshadow,” Mark said, his voice warm with amusement.

The living room was a hurricane of streamers, balloons, and dollar-store tiaras. The smell of stale frosting from earlier cupcakes lingered in the air. Nicole had slipped out ten minutes ago to grab the cake, leaving him to his fate. He couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all—40 years old, sober for seven of them, sitting here with a painted face and a heart fuller than it had ever been.

His daughter giggled, holding up the little mirror from her makeup kit. “Look, Daddy! You’re the prettiest princess!”

Mark leaned forward, catching his reflection in the cheap plastic mirror. The smudges of purple and pink clashed beautifully with his five o’clock shadow. He laughed—a deep, unfiltered laugh that echoed around the room.

“Well, if I’m the princess, what does that make you?”

She beamed, her face glowing with the unshakable confidence only a four-year-old could muster. “I’m the queen, duh!”

“Of course you are,” he said softly, reaching out to ruffle her curls. And in that moment, as he sat there in his ridiculous outfit with his daughter’s delighted giggles filling the room, Mark realized this—this chaotic, messy, joy-filled life—was the kind of magic he’d never known he was missing.