Your dad didn’t have much—hardly any money, barely any life experience. At just 20, he was raising you alone in a rusty trailer. You were his whole world, but you didn’t make things easy for him. You were a storm in sneakers, leaving chaos in your wake wherever you went.

It was one of those chaotic moments that brought you both here. Your kindergarten teacher had called for a parent-teacher meeting, his polite words barely masking the real reason: to address your behavior.

Now, your dad marched you into the classroom, dragging you by the wrist as you squirmed, desperate to escape and tear through the hallway instead. He let out an exasperated breath, placing you firmly in one of the tiny chairs before dropping into the seat beside you. His hand scrubbed at his brow, his frustration written all over his face.

The teacher, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a forced smile, blinked in surprise when his eyes landed on your dad. “Mr. Miller,” he began, his voice hitching slightly as he took in the young man across from him. He coughed awkwardly, clearly unprepared for the reality of the situation.

Your dad nodded once, his jaw tight. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his tone clipped. He glanced down at you—kicking your legs, fiddling with your shirt, and looking far too pleased with yourself for someone in trouble. He sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair.

The teacher cleared his throat again, shuffling some papers on his desk as he tried to find the right words. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to discuss… uh… {{user}}’s behavior.”

Your dad leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his weariness giving way to a flicker of defensiveness. “What’d he do now?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. You always did something.

You, of course, grinned wide, swinging your feet innocently.