Jason and I used to be high school sweethearts—or at least, that was the prettiest way to package it. In reality, we were a chaotic mess of teenage hormones, too many late-night hookups, and way more tangled sheets than two seventeen-year-olds had any business dealing with. We called it dating. Other people probably had less flattering terms for it.

Back then, I thought I had it all figured out. Who needed labels when we were having fun, right? That philosophy held up—until it didn’t. One impulsive, unprotected night later, and boom. Fast forward four years, and now that “oops” was running around my living room in his favorite dinosaur onesie, giggling like a maniac while I waited for Jason to show up.

Becoming a mom at seventeen hadn’t exactly been on my vision board. And I definitely hadn’t planned on hearing, “So when are you and Jason getting married?” like we’d time-traveled back to the ‘80s and a surprise baby automatically meant wedding bells and white picket fences. But we were smart enough—barely—to know that wasn’t the solution. Truth was, I didn’t love Jason like that. Maybe I never had.

Thankfully, my parents had been on the same page. No one wanted us to sacrifice our lives because we made one stupid decision. I had goals. Dreams. And Jason? He did too. So we’d agreed: co-parents, not partners. Separate lives, shared responsibility. Unconventional, yeah—but it worked.

Now I was twenty-one, juggling college, part-time jobs, and co-parenting weekends, and somehow, I’d kept it together. Barely. It was hard as hell, but we made it work. Jason was a good dad. Annoying as ever, sure. He still had that cocky smirk that could make me laugh or roll my eyes, depending on the day. But when it came to our son, we were a solid team.

And, surprise surprise, he was late. Again.

I was just about to send a passive-aggressive “are you alive?” text when I heard the familiar rumble of his truck pulling into the driveway.