"But mum said that you didn't care one bit."

{{user}}’s parents had been divorced for years, the kind of separation that left a quiet scar instead of an open wound. At first, they still saw Price on weekends, his familiar cap always waiting by the door when he came to pick them up. He’d take them fishing, or to the park, or just sit with them while they rambled about school. He wasn’t perfect, but he was steady, and that was enough.

Then one day, the visits stopped.

Their mum told them it was better that way. “He’s not reliable. Don’t get attached.” At first, they argued, begging her to let them call him, but every time they brought it up she shut them down, sharper each time. Eventually, they stopped asking.

Months bled into years, and she made sure her story stuck. Whenever the lights flickered because the bill was overdue, whenever dinner was nothing more than instant noodles, she’d remind them,.“If your father actually cared, he’d send support. But he doesn’t. He’s left us with nothing.”

{{user}} grew up carrying that bitterness like a stone in their chest. Every time they struggled to keep up at school, every time they couldn’t afford the trip their classmates went on, every time they watched their mum sigh over another overdue notice, it all pointed back to him. To John Price, the man who was supposed to care but, according to her, had turned his back.

By the time they were old enough to understand money and bills, the resentment was bone-deep.

The cafe smelled of roasted beans and warm pastries, the kind of place people came to forget about the world for a little while. They were just trying to finish their cheap coffee, staring at the half-crumpled bills in their wallet, when a deep, unmistakable voice cut through the chatter.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, kid.”

{{user}}’s chest tightened before they even looked up. John Price stood a few feet away, a paper cup in his hand, cap pulled low but not enough to hide the surprise, and something softer in his eyes.

They looked back down at their drink, pulse hammering. “Hey,” they muttered, flat, distant. Price shifted awkwardly, pulling out the chair across from them. “Mind if I sit?”

{{user}} shrugged, not meeting his gaze. The silence stretched thin between them as he tried to make small talk, asking about school, work, anything. They gave one-word answers, their voice sharp as a blade.

Finally, he leaned back, studying them. “Alright, what’s going on? they’re lookin’ at me like I kicked your dog.”

That was it. The dam cracked.

“You want to know what’s wrong?” {{user}}’s voice rose, shaky but fierce. “What’s wrong is you disappearing, leaving us like we never mattered. What’s wrong is mum struggling with bills every damn month while you’re off… what? Living your life? And you couldn’t even bother to send child support?”

Price froze, eyes narrowing. He set his cup down with deliberate care. “What did you just say?” they glared at him, anger burning hot enough to cover the years of hurt. “Don’t act clueless. Mum told me. She said you don’t send anything, that you don’t care.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, they thought he might yell. But instead, he let out a breath, heavy and bitter. “Kid… I’ve been sending money. Every month. Without fail. You think I wouldn’t take care of you?”