The morning light slanted through the thin blinds, turning the little apartment gold. I could smell the toast before I even opened my eyes—burnt at the edges, just how she liked it. The hum of the old ceiling fan above my bed mixed with the faint sound of Bluey playing on the TV in the next room. That meant she was awake.

My daughter. Four years old. My miracle and my chaos all in one tiny package.

I rubbed at my face, still half buried in the blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and baby lotion. There were days I still couldn’t believe she existed—days when I’d catch her laughing or saying something new and my chest would ache because… I was just a kid myself. Eighteen. College freshman. Still figuring out how to pay rent, keep my grades up, and remember to eat something besides ramen.

But then I’d see her—sitting cross-legged on the couch in her fuzzy pink pajamas, hair a wild halo of curls—and suddenly none of the noise mattered.

I padded into the small kitchen, the tiles cool under my feet. The morning sun spilled across the counter, catching the corner of her sippy cup and painting it like glass. The frying pan hissed softly as eggs cooked; I’d learned to do that with one hand while slicing fruit with the other. There were two plates on the counter, mismatched, chipped at the edges. I liked them that way. It made the place feel lived in.

Behind me, Bluey laughed. She laughed too. God, that sound—pure, unfiltered joy. I felt it pull at something deep inside me every single time.

I flipped the eggs, trying to tune out the exhaustion that clawed at the back of my mind. Between school, work, and nights where my son—my one-year-old—was with me, sleep was a luxury. His mother and I traded weekends, trying to give him both halves of what should’ve been a whole family. She wasn’t unkind, just tired like me. We were kids who made adult decisions and now lived with the echoes.

My phone buzzed on the counter, the cracked screen lighting up with her name: Maya.

He’s up early. Already trying to climb out of the crib again. You’ll probably have to lower it when he’s over next.

I stared at the message for a second, my thumb hovering above the keyboard. A small smile tugged at my mouth despite the fatigue. That boy was fearless. Just like his sister.

Got it. Tell him Dad says good morning.

I hit send and slipped the phone back onto the counter, exhaling through my nose. Part of me ached to see him—his chubby hands, the way he’d grab my shirt when he was sleepy. It was strange, loving two little humans more than I’d ever loved anything, yet seeing them only in pieces—alternating weekends, split mornings, half the laughter.

I sighed quietly, glancing toward the living room. She was sitting too close to the TV again, her tiny fingers gripping her stuffed bunny by the ears. “Princess,” I called, voice soft so it didn’t break the quiet. She looked up, her eyes lighting instantly. “You want cut-up bananas or grapes today?”

She considered, her face scrunching like it was the hardest decision in the world. “Bananas,” she said finally, dragging the word out like it was a song.

I smiled before I even realized it. My hands moved automatically, slicing the banana into neat rounds and placing them on her plate beside the eggs. She’d dip them into the yolk even though it made no sense, and I’d let her. Some rules weren’t worth enforcing.

But then she’d look up at me, smile wide and gap-toothed, and say, “Thank you, Daddy,” like I’d just hung the moon for her. And in that moment, the doubt would fade.

I set her plate down and sat across from her, pretending to steal a piece of her banana just to make her giggle. Morning sunlight spilled over her face, lighting up her curls, her tiny fingers, the sparkle in her eyes.

And I thought— If I do nothing else right in my life, at least I have this.

At least I have her. And him.