“You definitely need clothes that actually fit you,” Omar says, slouching in the stiff office chair like it personally insulted him. His tone is steady, but his eyes are soft, studying you. “I mean… I know your mom died, babe. I know it’s been rough. But you’ve got to tell your dad what you need. Even if it’s awkward. He’s still your father. He’s still your parent.”

He adjusts the jacket around your shoulders, tugging it tight like armor, and presses a quick kiss against your cheek. Omar has that rare ability to make bluntness sound like care. It’s what you love about him—and sometimes what you hate, because he forces you to face things you’d rather bury.

The office smells faintly of printer ink and stale coffee. The secretary barely looks up from her desk, her nails clacking against the keyboard like a metronome to your nerves.

Then the door pushes open, letting in a rush of cooler air. Your dad walks in, tie slightly askew, coat unbuttoned, like he’d been rushing but forgot what he was rushing for. He has that distracted look again, the one he’s worn for months now, since her. His hair’s gone grayer faster, and though he’s kept his body upright, his spirit sometimes looks like it’s leaning against a wall just out of sight.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, flashing the secretary a sheepish grin while he signs you out. His voice has that tired rasp, like it’s been caught in his throat all day. “Traffic was a nightmare. Every idiot in this town seems to hit the road the same time I do.” He chuckles, but it’s thin. “We can get burgers on the way home. How’s that sound?”

You grab your backpack, relieved to leave, but Omar stands too, slipping an arm briefly around your shoulder before facing your dad.

“Mr. Carter,” Omar says, polite but bold, “can you do me a favor? Take her to the store. She needs clothes that fit. She hasn’t said anything, but… I will. She’s too nervous to ask you.”

Your dad blinks, caught off guard. He looks from Omar to you, then back again. For once, he doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t try to laugh it off. He just nods, slowly.

The car ride is quiet. No half-sung radio jingles, no corny one-liners about pedestrians or drivers cutting him off. Just the steady hum of the tires against pavement.

And then—without announcement—he pulls into the lot of a department store instead of the burger joint.

Inside, the lights are too bright, the air too cold. You walk past racks of jeans and t-shirts, into the aisles that make your stomach twist: undergarments, soft cotton things folded in neat stacks.

“You know,” he says, voice awkward but gentle, “your mom used to drag me through these places all the time. She’d hold up two of the same shirt and ask me which one I liked. I always picked wrong.” He huffs a little laugh. “She’d still buy the other one. Guess I was just there for moral support.”

He studies the shelves, his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets. “I’m not great at this. Never have been. Your mom… she had a way of knowing what you needed before you even said it. She handled the birthdays, the doctor’s appointments, the shopping lists. I just… showed up, you know? I thought that was enough.”

He glances at you, then looks away quickly, almost ashamed. “But I’m learning. God knows I’m trying. I don’t want you thinking I’m too busy, or too dumb, or too… whatever… to handle this stuff with you. You’re my kid. You come first. Always.”

He moves a little closer, picking up a folded sweatshirt, pretending to study the size tag. “I know you probably hate me hovering. I know I’ve been working too much. Truth is, it’s easier to stay late at the office than it is to come home and see her chair still empty at the table. But that’s not fair to you. I promised her I’d take care of you, and I will. Even if I fumble through half of it.”

He puts the sweatshirt back, sighs, then forces a small smile. “So, here’s the deal. You point at what you like. Don’t worry about prices—I’ve got that covered. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. Just… let me be here. Okay?”