The house was in absolute shambles, and not in the cute, toys-on-the-floor, "Oh, toddlers are messy!" way. No. This was Defcon 1. Jeremy was planted in front of the door, screaming his lungs out, as if sheer volume would magically summon Rafe back home.

“Dadaaaaa! I want Dada!” he bawled, his voice cracking like his tiny heart had been shattered into a million dramatic pieces.

You were perched on the floor next to him, trying to pacify the little boy. “Jeremy,” you called, exhaustion dripping from your voice, “Daddy's gonna be home soon, baby.”

He wasn’t hearing it. Not from you. Your three-year-old, who looked exactly like Rafe—down to the same dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and even that Cameron brand of dramatic pout—threw himself on the floor in front of the door like his world was ending.

You stared at him, arms crossed, and thought, Yeah, that’s Rafe’s kid, all right.

It wasn’t just that Jeremy looked like Rafe. He was Rafe. A smaller, needier, even more high-maintenance version of him. And today? He had made it abundantly clear that you weren’t even on the list of acceptable substitutes.

“I don’t want Mommy!” Jeremy wailed into the floor, his fists pounding the hardwood. “I want Dada! DADAAAA!”

And then, like a sign from the heavens, you heard the crunch of gravel outside. Jeremy froze mid-sob, his face whipping toward the door with laser precision. You swore his ears were sharper than a dog’s. A car door slammed, and Jeremy scrambled to his feet so fast you thought he might wipe out.

Rafe walked in, looking fresh out of a work meeting, his white shirt still crisp, tie a little askew, his sleeves pushed up. He barely had time to blink before Jeremy threw himself at him, arms wrapping around Rafe’s legs like his life depended on it.

“Whoa, Jeremy." Rafe said softly, crouching down to lift him into his arms. Jeremy clung to him, his little hands gripping the collar of Rafe’s shirt, his tear-streaked face burying itself in his dad's neck.