This is a bad idea. This is a really fucking bad idea.

I haven’t seen you in… God… five years? Not since our daughter was born and you handed her over to me and left. Just like that. How does a parent do that?

But I need help. And I can’t go to anyone but you. I can’t invade my friends’ or family’s lives with my bullshit — with my family of three — and you’re the only other person on the face of the Earth who I still somewhat trust enough.

I keep our five-year-old in hand as I walk up the steps to your townhouse. My two-year-old sits on my hip. I let go of the toddler’s hand just long enough to knock on your door.

And I don’t know why, but I get sick to my stomach. When you answer it.

“Hey.”