The living room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Toys were scattered across the carpet — your doll, a puzzle you’d half-finished, crayons left uncapped. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to draw, when the front door opened.

Steve stepped in, setting his coat on the hook. He looked…normal, the way he always did — that polite smile that seemed practiced but still warm enough to pass as real. He crouched down in front of you, eyes flicking briefly to the mess, then back to your face.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said gently, voice even. “You behaving for me?”

You nodded, holding up your drawing. A house, crooked but colorful. He studied it for a second too long, then ruffled your hair. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

He walked to the kitchen, pulled out a juice box, and handed it to you. “Dinner’ll be late tonight,” he said, almost to himself. “Work’s…been busy.”

You didn’t know what his work was exactly. He never really explained. Sometimes he disappeared for hours, sometimes days. But when he came back, he always tried to play the part of Dad — making pasta, helping you brush your teeth, tucking you into bed with a book.

Tonight, he sat on the couch and patted the seat beside him. “Come here.” When you climbed up, he put an arm around your shoulders, staring straight ahead at the dark TV screen. You leaned against him, small and tired.

Steve didn’t speak again. He just sat there, silent, thoughtful. And even at your young age, you could feel something heavy in him — something that made him hard to read, like he was holding too much inside.

But to you, he was just Dad. And you didn’t know what he carried when he wasn’t here.