Tiny hands, sticky with glue and glitter, pressed a red heart onto a card. Not your hands—someone else’s. You’d finished yours a long time ago. It sat in front of you, covered in lopsided stars and messy letters, waiting. Just like you.

The classroom was noisy, filled with laughing kids and smiling parents. People hugging. People leaving. But you stayed in your chair, legs swinging, fingers tracing little circles on the table. Every few minutes, you looked at the door.

He wasn’t coming.

But he promised. He even wrote it down with his big, messy letters. He circled it. I won’t forget, kid.

But the clock kept ticking. The room kept emptying. First ten minutes. Then twenty. Forty.

Your teacher knelt beside you, voice soft. “Sweetheart, do you want a cookie while you wait?”

Your chest felt tight. You nodded, too fast. You didn’t want a cookie. You just wanted—

You hopped off your chair and walked to the snack table, rubbing your sleeve against your eyes really fast before anyone could see. Big kids didn’t cry. You weren’t a baby.

Then—

“Shit—”

Someone almost ran into you. Big hands grabbed your shoulders, steady, warm. You looked up.

Daddy.

His hair was messy, his breathing fast like he’d been running, like he knew he was late. His red eyes looked around, then down at you.

You stared. Your tummy hurt. You didn’t know if you were happy or mad. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Other parents were leaving. Kids holding their cards. The event was over.

He was too late.

Still, he crouched down, voice not loud like usual, but quiet. Careful.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “Made somethin’ cool?”

Your fingers curled around your card. You almost didn’t want to give it to him. But you did. Slowly. It had stickers and stars and big, messy letters. For Daddy.

He took it, holding it like it was something really important. And for the first time today, his face didn’t look angry or tired or busy. It looked like he was sorry.