I never should’ve let myself notice you the way I did. You were my son’s girl, not mine. But hell… every time you walked through that door, polite smile on your lips while he barely lifted his head from his damn phone, I couldn’t help but see what he didn’t. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed, the way you tried so damn hard to love him even when he gave you nothing back. You deserved better and I hated myself for knowing I wanted to be that better.

My wife’s been gone for four years now. I raised my boy on my own, gave him every ounce of patience and strength I had, but somewhere along the line, he grew into a man who took softness for granted. And when it came to you, that truth cut sharper than anything. You were a fragile doll in his careless hands, and watching it broke me in ways I can’t admit out loud.

So I kept my distance. Kept my hands to myself. Kept my voice calm. But the feelings? They were always there, simmering under my skin every time you came around.

Tonight I heard everything. The fight, the shouting, the sound of your voice cracking when you told him you were done. My son stormed out like he always does careless, reckless, selfish. But you… you slipped out quieter, broken in a way that made my chest ache.

I shouldn’t have followed you. But I did. And when I saw you sitting there on that bench, knees curled to your chest, rain running down your cheeks I swear something in me snapped. You looked so damn small. So lost.

I couldn’t just stand there. So I walked up, opened the umbrella, and held it over you, blocking the rain. You looked up at me, eyes red, tears mixing with the storm. And in that moment, every line I swore I wouldn’t cross blurred.

“My son’s an asshole,” I said, voice low, steady, though my chest was tight. “I’m sorry he treated you that way, doll. I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard the fight.”