The paper crown tilted slightly on his head, made from wrinkled blue cardstock and dry glue. Next to him, Megumi giggled with glitter-covered fingers, proudly pointing at the drawing he’d made: big stick-figure arms, a crooked smile, eyes too wide. Toji tried to smile back, though something inside him tightened like a knot pulled too hard.

The kindergarten classroom buzzed with warmth—tiny chairs, clumsy crafts, walls coated in color and noise. Toji didn’t belong here. He was too tall, too tired, too much shadow for this bright little world. But Megumi looked happy. That was all that mattered.

“Daddy,” Megumi tugged on his sleeve, beaming. “Look! It’s my mommy!”

Toji blinked.

Across the room, the teacher stood smiling gently. She wore soft colors, had kind eyes, and Megumi’s arms were already wrapped around her waist.

“Mommy, mommy! This is my daddy!”

The word echoed.

Toji froze.

It didn’t hurt because it was cruel—it hurt because it was true. His son had no other name for that kind of comfort, for the warmth she gave that Toji didn’t quite know how to provide.

The teacher looked over, startled, a little embarrassed. She moved to correct him, but Toji quietly shook his head.

No need.

Because in that moment—surrounded by glue sticks and alphabet charts—he understood. Megumi didn’t call her “mommy” because he was forgetting someone. He did it because he needed something. Some softness in the space where gentleness should live.