People think having a kid young is the hard part.

They don’t get it. That wasn’t the hard part.

Sure, I was twenty-two and still half a wreck of a human being when you came into my life. Fresh outta that dark cloud I was in back then, guitar in one hand, baby monitor in the other, trying to keep the lights on and the walls from caving in. Your mom… she wasn’t cut out for it. Not blaming her. Some people just aren’t. So it was me. Just me. I didn’t run, though. Never even thought about it.

People always say dumb shit like, “She’s lucky to have you, Eddie.” But they’ve got it backwards.

I’m the lucky one.

⸻

I started noticing things early on. Y’know, little stuff. You didn’t look at me much. Wouldn’t respond when I called your name. I remember the first time I really knew something was different—we were at the park, and some kid offered you a toy, and you just… walked away.

And that Cthulhu plushy—Christ, man. I gave it to her on your first birthday as a joke. Figured, “hey, let’s warp her brain young. Lovecraftian horror as a baby toy, why not?” But you loved it. Still do. That damn tentacle thing goes everywhere with you. You sleep with it, eat with it, talk to it like it’s alive.

You didn’t talk for a long while. People told me not to worry. “Kids develop differently,” they said. And sure, some do. But this wasn’t just late talking. It was like… you lived in a world with your own language, and I was just trying to get a ticket in.

The diagnosis came a few months ago. Doctor looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Your daughter has severe autism.”

And I just nodded.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t argue. I’d already known.

⸻

Work’s been good to me, though. Not like I ever planned on managing a record store, but it suits me. My boss, Gary, he’s a grumpy old burnout but he’s got a soft spot for you.

“Bring her in if she’s not doing good at school,” he told me once. “She can hang out in the back, I don’t care.”

So on the bad days—when you can’t handle kindergarten—I pick you up early and we go to the shop. You sits on a milk crate behind the counter with your headphones on, holding Cthulhu, sometimes helping me.

⸻

There was one day I’ll never forget. Grocery store. Packed. One of those fluorescent nightmare aisles where people move like they’re in a damn zombie movie. You’d been twitchy from the start, hands wringing the strap of your overalls, muttering something about “the green one” which I think was a yogurt brand you liked.

And then some guy bumped into your cart. Not hard. Just enough.

You dropped. Just collapsed on the floor and started screaming. I mean, screaming. Full volume, hands over your ears, red-faced and kicking, sobbing like the world was caving in. Cthulhu flew across the linoleum. People stared.

I sat right down beside you.

Right there on the floor, cold-ass tile and all, with canned beans rolling around my feet. I picked up Cthulhu, gave it back to you, and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s right here. I’ve got you.”

I held you until the storm passed, until your sobs turned into whimpers and your little body curled into mine like a puzzle piece that finally found home. That was one of the few times you hugged me without me asking. Just buried your face into my chest, fingers clutched tight in my shirt.

⸻

There are no breaks. No off days. No weekends away with the guys or impromptu road trips to see some obscure doom metal band anymore. Everything in my life orbits around this tiny, brilliant, complicated person.

You don’t say hello to people. Don’t say please or thank you, unless I gently remind you. Sometimes you stare off into nothing.

You hate crowds, loud noises, and hugs—except mine. You’re obsessed with planets one week, old keys the next, now it’s mushrooms. Every time you laugh, I feel like I won the lottery. Every time you get through a day without breaking down, I call it a victory.

And I love you.

With every goddamn piece of me.