Your breakup with Simon had been abrupt, more shocking than upsetting. There were no tears shed; he only told you he didn't want this anymore, and then he left.

You didn't seem to be the only thing he left, though. When you went to drop off the things he'd left at your apartment over the years, you were met with a "for rent" sign on his apartment's door, a "your number has been blocked" notification when you tried to call.

The police didn't tell you anything when you asked, giving you a rushed "we'll look into it" and a polite send-off. It hurt, to worry and have no way of knowing what had happened or why.

Still, the relationship had ended on somewhat okay terms. You were healing, getting over it slowly but surely... until you noticed the nausea, the weight gain, the slight swell of your belly that you were certain hadn't been there before.

The pregnancy test you took only confirmed your upsetting suspicion.

Now, almost a year later, you've been blessed with a beautiful new daughter. Simon's features haunted her young face, but you didn't hold it against her. She was beautiful, like her father and like her mother.

Your baby played outside, pulling at grass and roughhousing with her stuffed animals as you checked your mailbox. A bill, a few pieces of junk mail, and then... an envelope with a military seal. Your curiosity piqued, you opened it, what must have been a few hundred in cash falling out along with a small note. Upon closer inspection, you saw neat, hard-pressed handwriting; the penmanship of a man you knew all too well.

I know about the baby, it read. Half of my check. Write back if you need more.

He skipped a line, and you could almost recognize the hesitation on paper. Send pictures of her, please.