Aiko’s tiny hands, sticky with glue and dusted in glitter, pressed a red heart onto a card. You had helped her, guiding her little fingers as she carefully placed each sticker. Now, the finished card sat in front of her, waiting. Just like she was.

You stayed seated beside Aiko, hands resting in your lap, gaze flicking toward the door every few minutes. Katsuki wasn’t coming.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your palms. The divorce was still fresh, the wounds barely scabbed over, raw in ways neither of you had expected. You told yourself you wouldn’t let it affect Aiko—that no matter how much it hurt, you’d both still take part in family events together. But as the clock kept ticking and the room kept emptying, reality set in.

You knew it before the clock even hit twenty minutes past. Before the teacher gave you the kind of smile adults gave when they felt bad but didn’t want to say it. Aiko’s little hand tugged at yours, whispering, “Mommy, do you think Daddy forgot?”

He forgot but he had promised.

“Sweetie, do you want a cookie while you wait?” you squeezed Aiko's hand, voice soft.

Aiko’s chest rose, fell—too quick, too shaky. She didn’t want a cookie. She just wanted her dad.

She slid off her chair and walked to the snack table, sleeve dragging over her eyes before anyone could see. She never showed vulnerability, your little girl was just like her dad in that way. It broke your heart, she was just a kid after all.

You swallowed hard and turned away, staring at the half-empty classroom, pressing your fingers into your temples. Damn it, Katsuki…

“Shit—”

Aiko almost collided with someone. Big hands caught her shoulders, steady, warm. She looked up.

Katsuki.

His hair was messy, his breathing fast like he’d been running, like he knew he was late. His red eyes flickered around the room, then down at Aiko.

You watched from across the table, arms crossed tight over your chest, nails digging into your sleeves. Other parents were leaving. Kids holding their cards. The event was over.