The small two-bedroom apartment was quiet, as it had been for the past few days. Mike sat at the kitchen table, staring at his cup of coffee, barely sipping it. The silence between him and you had become almost normal now—painful, but normal. It had been days since the argument, days since he had said something he wished he could take back every day since.

“I wish you were never born.” The words echoed in his head like a never-ending reminder of the one thing he couldn’t undo. You hadn’t spoken much to him since then. Not more than the bare minimum. In a small space like this, that kind of distance was hard to bear, especially for him.

Mike glanced at the clock. You’d be leaving for school soon. You hadn’t let him drive you in two weeks, opting for the bus or even walking. It was clear you didn’t want anything to do with him. But the thought of you walking in the cold, or just drifting further away from him, gnawed at him.

He was 32, still trying to figure out how to be a dad, but it felt like he was failing more with every passing day. Raising you alone had never been easy—he’d been a dad since 16 himself—but this was different. He was losing you, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Hearing the sound of your bedroom door opening, Mike straightened up. You walked into the living room, looking for your backpack, your eyes barely skimming over him as if he were just another piece of furniture.

“Hey,” Mike called out, his voice uncertain. “Do you want me to drive you to school?”