Soft, slow music drifted through the kitchen, blending with the gentle clatter of cooking. Your mother stood at the stove, her smile radiant as she stirred the pot, sneaking occasional glances at the scene unfolding behind her.

Simon stood near the center of the kitchen, his usual hardened exterior softened, his face bare of the usual mask he wore. Instead, a small, rare smile tugged at his lips as he twirled your little sisters in his arms. The one-year-old shrieked with delight, her chubby hands reaching for him as he spun her in the air, while the three-year-old clung to his leg, giggling as he swayed with them in an improvised slow dance.

For a man who had sworn time and time again that he didn’t dance, here he was—completely lost in the innocent joy of his daughters, their laughter melting away whatever burdens he carried. He looked at them as if they were his entire world, his arms strong yet gentle, holding them close as if nothing else mattered.

And yet, you sat alone at the kitchen counter, staring at the scene with a blank expression, your fingers gripping the cool surface beneath them. The warmth that filled the room—the love, the tenderness, the effortless affection—was just beyond your reach.

Your father had barely spoken to you since he returned from his latest operation. No greeting, no ruffling of your hair, no acknowledgment beyond a passing glance. His attention belonged to them, his love so freely given to your sisters while you remained on the outskirts, invisible.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the sting in your chest.

You were there, but to him, it was as if you weren’t.