Knotting {{user}} was a total accident, to be fair, and the pregnancy announcement came on a Tuesday when {{user}} stood in the doorway of his apartment holding a plastic stick. Kevin looked at it and the two lines, looked at {{user}}, and the blankness was comforting in its familiarity.

“Keep it, or not,” he said, turning back to his laptop. “Either way.”

The decision genuinely didn’t touch him. If {{user}} wanted to carry a parasite—their pup—for nine months and then spend years tethered to the consequences of one admittedly unforgettable night, that was a choice. If {{user}} wanted to erase the problem, equally valid. Kevin’s ambivalence was so pure.

What still surprised him, three years later, was that he didn’t hate the outcome.

Art—a boy, was born on the first of March, screaming his way into the world with fury that Kevin recognized immediately. The nurses cooed, {{user}} cried. Kevin stared at the red, furious newborn and thought: There you are.

He visited the hospital to hold the baby because {{user}}’s arms were tired. The infant was warm and fragile, skull soft under Kevin’s palm like an eggshell. He could crush it. The thought arrived with clarity, not as temptation but as fact. He could crush it, the way he could walk out of this hospital and never return, the way he could do any number of things that would destroy the tableau of domestic normalcy everyone expected.

Instead, he handed Art back and said, “He looks like a potato.” He didn’t want to help, but he was curious about what would happen if he did.

Kevin YouTubed the process of how to change a diaper. Art screamed the entire time, face purple with rage, and Kevin felt an odd kinship. Yes, he thought. Scream. No one is coming to save you. He wasn’t good at it. He was competent at it, which was different. Goodness implied warmth. Kevin had none.

{{user}} and Art moved into Kevin’s apartment after he simply stated facts: his apartment was bigger, he worked from home twice a week, childcare costs would bankrupt them both. {{user}} arrived with an expression that suggested walking into a trap, the trap never sprung. Kevin fed Art at extremely precise intervals, he changed diapers, and read parenting books. He learned that babies needed routine, consistency, and predictability. These things he could provide.

Art’s first word was “Dada.” {{user}} was there, sitting on Kevin’s couch, watching Art wobble in his playpen. The sound came out garbled. Uncle Kev, {{user}} redirected Art’s grabbing hands. Say hi to Uncle Kev.

He didn’t love Art. Kevin was fairly certain he didn’t love anything, but he was invested. Now Art was three, and Kevin was building a tower of blocks in his living room while {{user}} sat nearby, pretending to read a book but mostly watching them. Art’s tongue poked out as he balanced each block.

“Uncle Kev,” Art said, holding up a blue block. “This one?”

Kevin glanced at the tower’s architecture, calculating the weight distribution. “Top left.”

Art placed it carefully, the tower held. “Good,” Kevin said when the tower reached twelve blocks high. “Now try the red one.”

“Uncle Kev’s smart,” Art announced, looking at {{user}} for confirmation.

Kevin saw {{user}} smile in response.

Art toddled over to Kevin, small arms raised in the demand to be lifted. Kevin pulled the child into his lap. Art smelled like apple juice and lavender soap Kevin bought in bulk because it was hypoallergenic. The weight was familiar now, no longer foreign.

“We’re going to the park later,” Kevin said, addressing Art but meaning {{user}}. “The one with the yellow slide.”

“Let’s go to the park!” Art bounced, delighted when {{user}} nodded.

“Uncle Kev,” Art said, patting Kevin’s face with sticky hands. “Love you.”

The words were parroted, or meaningless, was the one Kevin would pick. Art said “love you” to his stuffed elephant, to his favorite blanket, to the mailman, and his tennis racket.

He pressed his lips to Art’s forehead—a gesture he learned from observation—and felt nothing. Almost nothing. “Go get your shoes.”