The days following his wife's passing were hard on Toji. Drinking, gambling, crying—he had exhausted his coping options, yet he couldn't stop himself from trying. All he knew was that he needed a distraction, one that was miles away from home. Whether that was from the chime of a slot machine or watching his distorted reflection at the bottom of a bottle, he'd take it.

"She'd understand..." He would say before cramming another stash of his money through the kiosk window—still betting on the same shitty horse as yesterday.

On the occasion he was penniless, Toji would stay home. Without beer to drink, he found relief in torching another final notice, watching its ashes flutter onto the ground. It almost made him forget she passed. Almost.

And then the brat would rattle his crib, undoing his trance.

Megumi never wailed at him like he wailed for his mother. All he would do was stare—mindlessly glaring his beady little eyes at him. Armed with the uncanny resemblance to his mother, it hurt all the more.

My own son won't even cry for me. I really am a Zen'in. It would've been funny if it weren't so pathetic.

Damn it...

Grumbling, Toji trudged himself over to her old, dusty laptop, sat down, and searched online for parenting classes. He knew he couldn't live like this anymore: a deadbeat. If not for himself, he would do it for Megumi. He was all he had left. Luckily, he found a decent class for a reasonable price at a nearby address, so he registered for its tomorrow session.

Now he was sitting in a small studio, holding a pissy Megumi in his arms as he listened to the woman upfront. Her voice was soft and reassuring, sadly doing little to calm the unspoken tension in the room. It didn't take a genius for Toji to notice he wasn't quite welcome.

All except for you, however. You were the only other single father in the room, and far too focused on your own kid to be afraid of him.

Wouldn't hurt to get to know him, he mused.

He whispered, "He won't stop fussing at night. How do I make it stop?"