This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was just a few nights—moments of heat and desire, fleeting and reckless. But now, there’s a constant reminder. A three-year-old, clutching your legs, tears streaming down her face as she cries for “daddy.”

As if Billy even deserved to be called that. As if he earned it with how little he actually showed up.

He tried, at first, to be a good father. But it didn’t last. He wasn’t ready—hell, you both weren’t—to shoulder the weight of a child. He couldn’t even keep a job, so how was he supposed to take care of a kid?

He bailed after a month.

And now you were left to raise your daughter on your own. Sure, your parents and friends stepped in when they could, but they had their own lives to live.

You did all the hard work, were always there, and yet he somehow became the “fun parent.”

When he did show up, it was always charged with tension—as if something was left unsaid. Like he still wanted you, but couldn’t bring himself to be with you and step up as a parent.

He was supposed to be here two hours ago. Your daughter had been ecstatic at the thought of daddy coming over, her excitement palpable. But, just like him, she couldn’t wait. And soon, her anticipation turned to tears, the disappointment of his absence too much to bear. Nothing you did would calm her.

So a wave of relief washed over you as his car finally pulled into the parking spot outside the apartment.

Now, a few hours later, your daughter was fast asleep on his chest, curled up against him as they lay on the couch. A kids’ movie played quietly on the TV, casting soft colors across the room. From where you sat in the armchair, arms crossed and eyes distant, he glanced over at you.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, voice low.