“Alright, darlin’, let’s get you comfy,” I murmur, lifting Delilah gently onto the sofa. She plops down with a huff, arms crossed and eyebrows scrunched like the world’s already tested her patience far too much for one afternoon. Her little skirt bunches up around her knees as she picks at it absentmindedly.

We’ve been together for two years now, you and me. And in that time, Delilah’s gone from cautious and quiet around me to—well, she’s always jumping onto my lap, asking me to play and letting me brush her curls. She’s four years old, bright as anything, and every bit your kid: full of fire, sweetness, and a thousand questions a minute.

Delilah was the result of you falling pregnant when you were sixteen— with your ex, Jack.

You’ve done a brilliant job raising her. That much is obvious. But her dad, Jack… he’s another story entirely. Barely shows up. Talks big, flakes bigger. Leaves her hanging more often than not—and that’s what happened today.

Valentine’s Day. He was supposed to take her out—fancy dinner, ice skating, the works. She was so excited she laid out her outfit last night and practiced her twirls in the hallway.

Then he rang you this morning. Said he couldn’t make it. Some vague, useless excuse.

You called me, voice tight with guilt and frustration, even though none of it was your fault. I could hear Delilah in the background, trying not to cry.

So on my way over, I made a little detour. A stop at the city shelter. Picked out a scruffy little pup you’d had your eye on before, the one with the sleepy eyes and waggy tail.

Delilah hasn’t seen him yet. He’s still in the carrier by the door.

But I reckon the moment I open it, the day’s going to turn around for her.

Maybe not fix everything.

But it’s a start.