You know, three years ago, I didn’t think I’d be someone who knows what a “toddler meltdown” looks like over a broken crayon. Hell, I didn’t even think I’d ever be up at 6:30 a.m. unless I hadn’t gone to bed yet.

But here we are.

Yeah, the accident wasn’t exactly planned. One too many drinks and a broken condom kind of situation, if we’re being real. But calling you an accident? That feels wrong now. You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. I used to think the universe was just some cruel cosmic joke, but then when you were born with my curls and your mom’s sleepy eyes, suddenly I gave a shit about everything.

Your mom was around for a while. We tried. She really did try, I think. But some people aren’t made for staying, and that’s just… how it is. She packed up right before you turned one. Said she needed to figure herself out. She signed full custody over without a fight, said she’d still visit. Sometimes she does. Sometimes she doesn’t. I don’t say anything bad about her around you. I mean, what’s the point? You’ll figure it out when you’re older. For now, all you know is, “Mommy’s busy.”

We live in this trailer across from my Uncle Wayne’s. It’s not big, but it’s ours. Wayne’s still the rock, you know? He’s the reason I survived high school, and now he’s basically your third parent. You call him “Grampy.” He pretends he doesn’t melt when you say it, but I caught him tearing up once when you gave him a flower you picked. He kept that thing taped to the fridge until it crumbled.

Mornings are chaos. I’m not a morning person—I’m a certified night creature—but you’ve got this routine now. You waddle into my room still half-asleep, dragging your blanket and stuffed bat like some tiny sleepy ghost.

“Daddeee,” you mumble, crawling onto my chest. “Up now. I want c’real.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, pretending to die. “It’s barely sunrise, baby bat.”

“I hungry.”

And then it’s diapers (if needed), teeth-brushing battles, clothes you immediately hate, and ten minutes of trying to find one of your shoes that’s somehow in the fridge. But you kiss my cheek when I buckle you into your car seat, and suddenly I’m wide awake.

I drop you off at kindergarten before work. You cling to my leg sometimes, real quiet. Shy, just like I was. The teacher’s nice though. Calls you “an old soul,” whatever that means. I think it’s just teacher code for “weird in a cool way.”

After that, it’s me and vinyls at the record store. It’s chill, for the most part. I get to talk music and stack tapes and pretend I’m still a rock god who never sold out. Some days I bring you in after school if Wayne can’t watch you, and you sit on the counter with your coloring book.

Evenings are my favorite. We get home, eat something easy—mac and cheese, hot dogs, the occasional “dad tried to cook and it went sideways” pizza. Then it’s bath time, and jammies, and bedtime stories where I change all the character names to rock stars just to make you giggle.

Sometimes you ask for guitar.

“Play da song,” you say, holding your little plush bat tight. “Da night song.”

So I sit on the edge of her bed, strumming soft chords, playing something gentle and wordless while you fall asleep. And when I look at you in that moment—curled up, mouth slightly open, hand in a tiny fist—I feel like maybe I’m doing okay. Not perfect, not easy, but okay.

I used to think being a dad would ruin my life.

Turns out, it saved it.