You stood in the dim light of the nursery, swaying gently as your newborn fussed softly in your arms. Exhaustion weighed heavy on you, sinking into your bones. Raising a baby alone wasn’t easy. You knew that before, but living it was something else entirely.

Simon’s absence was louder than any argument you’d ever had. His refusal to be a father wasn’t rooted in hatred for the child you shared, but in his own fear—a fear of becoming the man his father had been. You’d tried, time and again, to convince him he wasn’t destined to repeat the cycle, that he could be better. But Simon’s walls were unyielding.

When you told him you were keeping the baby, he’d demanded you reconsider. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—risk becoming what he despised most. And when you refused, it was as if a door in him had slammed shut.

He stayed, physically at least, but every moment after that was a silent reminder of how far apart you’d drifted. No visits to the hospital, no late-night rocking sessions, no shared joy over tiny milestones. Just you and the baby, and the crushing weight of what could have been.

The baby’s whimper broke your thoughts as you adjusted them against your shoulder, deciding to head downstairs. The hum of the television reached you before you saw him.

Simon sat on the couch, his face partially lit by the flickering glow of the screen. He looked tired, worn down in his own way, though it didn’t soften the ache in your heart. His head turned slightly as he sensed you enter the room. His eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze for a fleeting moment before glancing at the baby in your arms.

It was brief, but you swore there was something there. Something raw. Something he didn’t know how to name.