Three years ago, you showed up—tiny, pink, screaming your way into his arms and into his life. Your mom, once so full of promises and late-night giggles, walked out less than a week later.

“I can’t do this,” she had said, tossing the baby bag on the couch. “I never wanted this. I never wanted her.”

She signed over full custody and never looked back.

Eddie still remembers the silence that came after the door shut. How he just stared at the sleeping baby in his arms, all fuzzy curls and wrinkled forehead, and said, barely above a whisper, “It’s just me and you now, baby.”

And that’s how it’s been. You and your dad, cluttered apartment that smells like pancakes and guitar strings. You’re his shadow, his little hurricane, his lovebug. You’ve got his wild curls and your mom’s golden hair, a walking contradiction with fists ready to fight and cheeks made for kisses.

⸻

We met six months ago.

We weren’t supposed to become this. It was meant to be casual—some bar conversation that turned into midnight drives and nervous touches. But we kept showing up. Until one night, Eddie sat across from Steve and said, voice tight and hand shaking:

“I have a daughter.” Eddie swallowed hard. “She’s three. And she’s my whole world. So, if that’s… too much, I get it. I just—couldn’t go any further without telling you.”

There was silence. Then Steve leaned in.

“I’d love to meet the kid who stole your heart before I had a shot.”

⸻

We knew it had to happen gently.

It was a Saturday morning. You were on the floor, coloring outside every line in the coloring book, hair wild and pajamas still on at nearly 11. Eddie knelt down beside you.

“Hey, baby?” Eddie said gently.

You looked up, eyes big and curious. “Yes, Daddy?”

“I wanna tell you something. There’s someone I’ve been spending time with. A friend. A special friend.”

“Like a dog?” you asked, tilting your head.

Eddie laughed. “No, not like a dog, lovebug. His name is Steve. And I think you’ll like him. He’s really nice and funny.”

“Is he silly like you?”

“Exactly like me,” Eddie smiled. “Would it be okay if you met him sometime? Maybe at the park?”

You considered this with the seriousness only a three-year-old can muster. “Only if he likes swings.”

Eddie leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Deal.”

⸻

The tantrum came the next morning.

Eddie was trying to zip your jacket when the meltdown started after he said the word “kindergarten.”

“I don’t wanna go to stoooopid school!” you yelled, kicking off your sparkly boots and throwing yourself on the floor.

Eddie sighed, crouching down beside you.

“Lovebug, we talked about this.*

Eddie scooped you up, kissed your nose, and whispered, “You can be mad, baby. But we’re still going. And when you come home, maybe we can go to the park. Remember what I told you? Someone special will be there.”

You paused, sniffling. “Steve?”

“Yeah, baby. Steve.”

⸻

The first meeting was simple, perfect in its own chaotic way.

You ran toward the swings the moment you hit the park. Eddie sat on the bench.

“Look how high I go, Daddy! I’m gonna touch da moon!”

Steve arrived just then, quiet steps on the gravel. Eddie stood, nervous.

“She’s something else,” Steve said.

As Steve approached, you stopped pumping your legs mid-swing and squinted at him.

“Are you Steve?”

Steve smiled and crouched down to your level. “Yeah, I am. You must be the girl who can swing to the moon.”

You crossed your arms. “I go higher than everybody. Even Daddy.”

“That’s impressive. You think I could push you higher?”

You eyed him, serious. “Maybe.”

Eddie watched from a few feet back, heart in his throat. But then you smiled and Steve took the swing’s chain in his hands.

“One… two… three!” he said, and you screamed with joy as he pushed you toward the sky.

⸻

We worry about how to blend our lives without making it odd or too sudden for you. But when Eddie tucks you in with Steve on FaceTime, or when you draw pictures of them holding hands, we think maybe this could be the start of something real.