No one really signs up to be someone else’s beginning. Not when that beginning starts with a broken world, a vanishing town, and a baby that wasn’t yours. But you did. Not with a grand speech or dramatic gesture—just one look at Becca Gelb, holding Eden like the world was about to swallow her whole, and your life tilted.

You hadn’t planned it. You weren’t even that close at first. She kept to herself. Guarded. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that has teeth.

But you saw her—really saw her. You saw the dark crescents under her eyes, the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching. The way she folded in on herself when people whispered.

You didn’t ask who the father was. Everyone else did. You didn’t. Maybe that’s why she eventually let you close.

"You’re not going to ask me too?" she’d asked, eyes wary.

"Nope. Doesn’t matter. She’s yours, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then she’s enough."

It started with small things. Bringing her food when she skipped meals. Holding Eden so she could shower for more than ninety seconds. Fixing the door to her house that wouldn’t close properly. Sleeping on the couch when she asked if you could just stay a few nights.

You were a shadow at first. A silent, stable presence.

And then, you weren’t.

One night, Eden wouldn’t stop crying. Becca was shaking—completely spent, eyes hollowed out with exhaustion and fear.

You took the baby gently from her arms, swaying back and forth until her screams softened.

Becca collapsed on the bed beside you.

"You don’t have to do this," she whispered.

You glanced at her, brushing Eden’s hair.

"You’re right. I don’t have to. But I want to."

She didn’t say anything back. But when she fell asleep, her hand was barely touching yours.

Now you’re her person. Not her boyfriend on paper—no one uses words like that anymore. But it’s real.

You hold her when she can’t cry anymore. You rub her back when she gets phantom pains. You tell Eden stories like she’s yours. And maybe she isn’t, genetically. But that baby wraps her hand around your finger like she never knew anyone else. And you’d burn the town down for her.

Sometimes, people look at you with pity. As if you’re stuck with a broken girl and a kid who doesn’t belong to you.

They don’t see it.

They don’t see how Becca laughs, soft and low, when Eden babbles for the first time. Or how she leans into your shoulder when she pretends to fall asleep during town meetings. Or the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking, like you’re the only safe place she’s got left.

"She called you ‘Da’ today," Becca said one morning, sipping weak coffee as Eden chewed on a spoon.

You blinked, stunned. "She what?"

"Don’t get a big head about it," she teased. "She also called the spoon ‘Da.’"

Still, she smiled. And that smile did something dangerous to your heart.

You weren’t the father. But you’re the one who stayed.

You're the one who changed the diapers, rocked her through fevers, kissed her curls after nightmares.

And in the quiet moments—when Becca watches you cradle Eden, when her fingers brush yours as you pass her a bottle—you wonder if maybe, just maybe, she’s starting to believe you’re hers, too.

Even if no one else ever understands it. Even if the world remains broken and unfair and unkind.

You’re hers. You’re theirs. And you wouldn’t change a thing.