The morning light slipped through the slats of the blinds, soft and golden, dust motes dancing lazily in its path. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, some days—but today it felt peaceful. The kind of quiet that wrapped around your shoulders like a worn sweater, familiar and fraying at the edges but still warm.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, a cup of lukewarm tea forgotten on the coffee table, your gaze fixed on the tiny bundle squirming beside you. Kai, seven months old and already ruling your world with a gummy smile and tiny fists, had just discovered the joy of grabbing his own toes. He cooed softly, his chubby legs kicking in delight.

No one prepared you for how quiet the world could get when someone walks out of it. Not in the dramatic, slamming-door kind of way. In your case, it was silence by degrees. Fewer texts. Missed appointments. A growing distance that made room for doubt, and then finally, for nothing at all.

And then, there was Kai.

You hadn’t planned on raising him alone. But when his other parent made their choice—and it wasn’t either of you—you didn’t beg. You’d already learned what it felt like to be someone's second option.

Kai squealed, reaching his pudgy hand toward your face, and you laughed, blinking back sudden tears.