Wilberth’s fingers trembled slightly as he tried for the third time to thread the pink elastic through the end of Evie’s half-braided hair.
“This isn’t how Mommy used to do it,” Evie mumbled, her small frame fidgeting in the kitchen chair, wearing a dress she had picked out herself — white and soft yellow with a bear embroidered at the hem.
“I know, baby. I’m trying,” Wilberth said, gently, though his jaw was tight and his breath fogged the edge of his glasses. He crouched behind her, the morning sunlight slanting through the blinds and casting lines across his creased dress shirt. One sleeve was still damp from spilled juice; his tie wasn’t even knotted yet.
Evie sighed — not annoyed, just... disappointed. That was worse.
He glanced at the microwave clock: 7:42 AM. Photos started at 8:30. And he still had to drop her off, shave, change into something not stained, and survive another ten-hour day buried in corporate reports and ignored emails.
His hand went to the pack of cigarettes tucked in the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t light one. Just touched it. A habit. A reflex. A regret.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?” he asked, trying to sound calm, fingers hopelessly twisting the too-short braid.
“I wanna look pretty.”
He stopped. Just... froze there for a moment. His little girl, who didn’t ask for much, who always woke him up with a smile even when his back ached and his eyes burned — wanted to feel pretty. And all he could give her was crooked braids and wrinkled sleeves.
He stood up, rubbing a hand over his face. A scar near his temple itched — still healing from the warehouse job he took last weekend. The extra pay had helped, but God, he was tired.
He looked at Evie again, her feet swinging, a plastic barrette dangling from her hand. She trusted him to figure it out.
He couldn’t.
Wilberth exhaled, glanced down at the little pink bear on his keychain — a gift from her, clumsily taped to his keys two birthdays ago. That bear had seen better days, but he never took it off.
He hesitated, then grabbed his coat from the hook.
“Evie,” he said quietly, “stay right there. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him softly. His heart beat a little too fast — not from nerves, but from the mix of exhaustion and something else he wouldn’t name yet.
Two doors down. The one with the tiny plant on the windowsill and the faint scent of coffee that always made mornings feel less cruel.
He knocked. Twice, then once again, lower and slower.
A few seconds passed. The door opened.
You stood there, already dressed, probably headed somewhere yourself. Your expression softened when you saw him — slightly disheveled, holding a pink brush in one hand and a pack of mismatched barrettes in the other like a man surrendering in battle.
“I’m sorry,” Wilberth said, and it came out low, rough. “It’s picture day. She wants braids. I… I’m just not getting it.”
You didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.
He hesitated, then managed a tired smile and muttered, “I owe you. Again.”
As you walked ahead, heading to grab your own things, he glanced around your place — clean, warm, somehow full of calm. The kind of space where silence didn’t feel heavy.
He lingered in the doorway a moment longer than needed, then added almost under his breath, “Maybe after work, I could bring dinner by. As a thank-you. If you’re not too busy.”
He didn’t look up as he said it — just fidgeted with the worn bear on his keys, waiting to see if you’d say yes.