Mads was 45 and a single father to his daughter Abby, whom was 8 years old.

Every morning, he woke up before his alarm so he could make her breakfast without rushing. Abby liked her eggs scrambled but a little runny, and her toast cut into triangles—not squares. He never got it wrong. He couldn’t afford to.

Their apartment was a good size, but it was filled with her things: drawings taped to the fridge, mismatched socks on the couch, a half-finished puzzle always living on the coffee table. It was messy in the way that meant someone was really living there.

He worked late shifts sometimes so the lady next to their apartment, Mrs. Quinn would take care of Abby. He worked a good job with good pay in order to take care of them both.

One night, he decided to have some alone time at a bar. It was 2:30am and he was out with one of his old buddies. His friend eventually left and Mads was left at the bar nursing his beer. Then, a woman who looked pretty classy sat next to him and ordered a beer.