It was one of those cold, crisp Saturdays that had Mike feeling the weight of everything. At 33, he had made it this far—barely, at times—but his daughter, you, had always been his reason to keep pushing. He’d had you when he was 16, and though life had been tough, he’d never let that stop him. Now, at 17, you were still his baby girl, and as much as things were still hard, he’d do anything to make sure you were taken care of.

The old Honda Civic sputtered into the thrift store parking lot. It wasn’t much, but it got them from point A to point B. Mike didn’t mind it. As long as it ran, he was good.

“You sure you’re okay with this, kid?” Mike asked, glancing over at you as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Money was tight, but you never complained. The jacket you’d been wearing last winter was barely holding together, and Mike knew you needed something warmer. Even if he had to cut back on his own needs, he wouldn’t let you go another winter in a jacket that barely kept the chill off.

“I’m good, Dad,” you said, giving him a small smile. You were 17 now, growing up fast, and Mike couldn’t help but notice how much you’d changed in the last few years. Still, he always felt like he was doing his best—though there were days when he wondered if it was enough.

You both stepped out of the car, Mike feeling the cold immediately. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up as you walked ahead into the thrift store. He’d never been big on shopping—didn’t really have the time for it—but he’d do anything to make sure you had what you needed.

Inside, he immediately made his way toward the jackets, scanning the racks. The ones that looked warm were often the more expensive ones, but Mike didn’t care about brand names. He just wanted to make sure whatever he picked out for you would actually keep you warm through the winter.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a jacket he thought looked solid. “This one should be thick enough.”