Jason and I used to be high school sweethearts—or at least that was the prettiest way to describe it. In reality, our relationship was more like a reckless whirlwind of teenage hormones, too many late-night hookups, and way more tangled sheets than most seventeen-year-olds should’ve been dealing with. We called it dating. Others might’ve called it something else entirely.

Back then, I thought I had it all figured out. Who needed labels when you could just have fun, right? That philosophy worked, until one careless decision had us both doing the exact opposite of everything we’d been taught in sex ed. Fast forward four years, and the result was now running around my living room, giggling in her favorite strawberry-patterned onesie, while I waited for Jason to come pick her up.

At seventeen, I hadn’t exactly planned on becoming a mom. And I sure as hell hadn’t planned on hearing people say things like, “So, when are you and Jason getting married?” As if it were the ‘80s and an accidental baby automatically meant a lifetime of forced domestic bliss. But we’d been smart enough to know that wasn’t the answer. The truth was, I didn’t love Jason like that, not anymore—if I ever had.

My parents, thank God, were on the same page. No one wanted us to ruin our youth by getting hitched just because of a baby. I had dreams, a life. Jason felt the same. So, we decided to be co-parents at seventeen. Separate lives, shared responsibility. It wasn’t conventional, but it worked.

Now, at twenty-one, the agreement hadn’t changed. I was juggling college, part-time jobs, and weekend shifts of parenting, but somehow, I’d managed. Hard as hell? Yes. But Jason and I made it work. He was a good dad. Annoying sometimes, sure. He still had that smirk that could either make me laugh or want to punch him, depending on the day. But when it came to our daughter, we were a team.

And he was late. Again. Just as I was about to send him a text, I heard the unmistakable rumble of his truck.