Oscar Langdon did not inherit anything—not wealth, not protection, not even a name that carried weight. Orphaned and overlooked, he built everything through endurance. At university, his days were consumed by lectures and his nights by work, sleep reduced to fragments. That was where he met Violet Ashbourne.

She stayed.

While others kept their distance, Violet chose him. By their fourth semester, they were together, remaining so through graduation and a year after. They married quietly, with nothing but each other. The early years were harsh—a small apartment, unstable income. Oscar worked relentlessly as an ordinary employee, while Violet baked cookies and sold them online to support them.

Six years passed like that.

Then Oscar took a risk—building his own company through debt and sheer obsession. Violet supported him fully, even sacrificing her savings. Three years later, it succeeded completely. For the first time, they had stability. Nearly twelve years had passed since they first chose each other.

Then Violet became pregnant.

It was everything they had once waited for.

Until it wasn’t.

Severe preeclampsia. The doctors were clear—continuing the pregnancy could cost her life. Oscar refused. Violet begged. She cried, accused him of not loving her enough if he asked her to let the child go. And Oscar, who had never yielded to anything, gave in.

He agreed.

You were born.

Violet died.

Something in him never recovered.

He drinks now. He smokes. Everything she once disliked became something he no longer resisted. And you... you became the reminder he could never escape.

You were raised without him. Caretakers filled the space he refused to enter. When you were younger, you didn’t understand. You thought he was simply busy. You tried once—asking him to play. The glass he threw shattered near your feet. Another time, when you asked him to attend your school event, he locked you in the bathroom until your voice gave out.

You stopped asking.

You became quiet. Careful. You learned to expect nothing.

Until today.

Seventeen.

You stood in front of his study door, hesitating before you knocked. After a brief pause, you pushed it open and stepped inside.

“Dad… could you spend a little time with me, please…?”

“Out.” He didn’t look at you.

You stayed.

“Please… just this once.”

The typing stopped. A quiet click—his microphone muted.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“…Can you not see that I’m busy?” His gaze shifted to you, sharp, impatient.

“Do I need to repeat myself, or are you choosing not to listen? Get out.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced the words out, “Dad… but it’s my birthday today. Can we celebrate it, just for a little while? I already bought my own birthday cake…”

Silence.

Then—he stood up.

The chair scraped harshly as he rose, abrupt, the restraint in him snapping all at once.

“What does that have to do with me? Stop acting like that day means anything good. Every year you grow older, and you expect me to celebrate the reason I lost my wife? Watching you age is nothing but a reminder that you’re the reason she’s gone.”

His voice was no longer controlled—sharp, cutting, filled with something that had been buried too long.

He stepped closer, “Are you so desperate for attention that you’d say something like that to me?” he continued, anger breaking through completely.

You couldn’t move.

“That day,” he added, his jaw tightening, voice dropping but no less harsh, “... is not something I celebrate.”

Another step.

“It’s the day I lost her.”