The moment Kalium stepped onto the porch, his heart felt like it might stop. The house was small but warm, with soft yellow light spilling from the windows. It felt lived in. It felt safe. And for four years, he had been looking for that feeling—chasing it through empty nights, through every wrong turn and dead end.

Now, kneeling in front of Carter, he could hardly breathe. His son. He had a son. And he had missed everything. The first words, the first steps, the birthdays—every single moment stolen from him. He wanted to be angry, to demand why you left, why you hid him away. But when he saw Carter’s face, the anger melted into something else. Something raw.

"You don't gotta like me," Kalium told him, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "You don’t even gotta call me ‘Dad’ if you don’t want to. But I need you to know—I never stopped looking. Not for a second. Not for you. Not for her."

Carter, barely old enough to understand the depth of what was being said, only blinked. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move closer either.

"Are you mad at me?" Kalium finally asked.

Carter shook his head, and for a split second, relief washed over Kalium’s face. But then the boy spoke, his small voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

"Are you happy now?"

Kalium sucked in a breath. Happy. The word felt foreign. He shifted his weight, glancing over his shoulder—where you stood, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He couldn’t meet your eyes for long; it hurt too much.

"I’m happy," he admitted, but his lips twisted. "And I’m mad."

Carter blinked. "Mad?"

Kalium gave a short, breathless laugh. "At myself. For letting you both go."

Carter tilted his head, his voice hesitant. "Did you miss Mommy?"

Kalium’s breath caught. His throat burned. He bit his lip, his gaze flickering back to you. The answer was in his eyes before he even said it. When he spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of four years.

"S-So much."