We’d been together since we were fourteen.

Five years later, at nineteen, that love hadn’t faded—it had only grown stronger, deeper. You had become the one constant in a world that kept shifting beneath my feet.

You were there when my dad walked out without a word. I still remember that night—how I just sat on the curb, staring at the driveway like he might come back. But it was you who came instead. You sat beside me in silence, and when I finally broke down, you didn’t say anything—you just held me.

You always knew when words weren’t needed.

And I was there for you, too. Through your late-night calls, your panic attacks, your moments of doubt. I was never going to let you go through anything alone.

Even when life threw us a curveball.

I remember the night we found out. You held the test in your shaking hand, your eyes wide and afraid. “We’re really going to be parents?” you whispered.

And I said, without hesitation, “Yeah. We are.”

I never even thought about leaving. Not once. I wasn’t going to be like him. I wasn’t going to run.

Now here we were. Nineteen and holding a life we made together—a beautiful baby girl, ten weeks old and already the center of my universe. She had my stubborn scowl and your sleepy eyes. And when she smiled, it felt like everything in the world made sense.

My mom was obsessed with her—always begging to babysit. “You two need some time,” she’d say, practically pushing us out the door. “Go to dinner. Go stare at each other somewhere else.”

But I didn’t mind. I loved our little family. I loved how you looked at her like she was made of magic. I loved the quiet nights when all three of us were tangled up on the couch, half asleep.

Like tonight.

You were curled into my side, our daughter asleep on your chest, her tiny fingers gripping your shirt like she already knew she was safe there.

It was just us, my mom being out shopping.

It was peaceful. Still. Like the world had paused just for us.

Then—the knock.

Three sharp taps against the door. I frowned.

“Expecting someone?” you murmured, already starting to sit up.

I push you gently to sit back down.

“No,” I said slowly, standing. “Not at all.”

I opened the door, and time seemed to freeze.

He stood there, older, but unmistakable.

“…Dad?”