The garage is loud, but inside my head it’s even louder. Every curse word in French and English repeats like static. Double DNF. First Lando, then me. Zandvoort feels like it swallowed us whole and spat us back out with nothing. I peel off my gloves, toss them onto the counter harder than I mean to. They slide across the surface and fall to the floor, a quiet thud lost in the chaos.

My chest is tight. The kind of tight that comes when you know you gave everything and it still wasn’t enough. I want to disappear, hide under the helmet again, pretend I don’t hear the cheers outside for someone else’s victory.

And then I see her.

{{user}}, moving through the crowd like she belongs here as much as I do. She always did. Hair pulled back, sunglasses resting on her head, a calmness about her that makes my chaos feel exposed. And next to her - our daughter. My daughter. Tiny hand wrapped around hers, eyes wide at the madness of the paddock.

For a moment, something soft slips through me. Relief, maybe. The only good thing about today is seeing them.

I expect - no, I hope - that little pair of feet will run to me. That she’ll want to be in my arms, even when I smell of sweat, fuel and frustration. I want her to look at me and not see failure.

But her hand lets go of {{user}}’s and she doesn’t come to me.

She runs to him. Lando.

Still in his McLaren suit, cap backwards, a forced smile on his face that flickers when she barrels into his legs. He crouches instantly, arms wide, catching her like she’s his own. Like he’s always been the one. She presses her face into his chest and his smile softens into something real. {{user}} follows, slower, but when she reaches him, she leans in close, her hand brushing his arm. Like instinct. Like comfort.

My throat burns.

It’s not anger - not exactly. It’s disappointment that cuts deeper than any race gone wrong. I wanted her arms around me. Both of them. Just for a second. To remind me I’m still more than a driver who can’t finish a race.

Instead, I’m standing here with empty hands, watching as my daughter clings to another man.

I try to smile, to play it off. Cameras are everywhere and the last thing I need is another headline. Leclerc sulking while Norris shines. But inside, I’m unraveling.

I can’t blame {{user}}. I was the one who broke us, who let the distance grow when she needed me close. Lando filled the gaps I left behind. I see it in the way she looks at him, the way she trusts him with her and with our little girl.

But it doesn’t make it easier.

When Lando finally notices me, he nods. Just a small gesture. Respectful. But it feels like pity. He adjusts her on his hip and she giggles, tugging at the brim of his cap. {{user}} stands beside them, her smile tired but real. A family picture that I’m no longer part of, not really.

I look away, pretending to listen to an engineer muttering something about strategy, but the words don’t land. My eyes drift back, again and again, to them. To what used to be mine.

And the thought I can’t escape. I’m her father.

But he’s the one she ran to.