You carefully descended the stairs, cradling your newborn in your arms. The weight of them was still unfamiliar, their tiny body warm and delicate against your chest. Each time you held them, it got a little easier—your hands a little steadier, your heart a little stronger.

As you stepped into the living room, your mother’s gaze lifted to meet yours. She offered you a soft, reassuring smile—the same one she’d given you since the moment you told her the news. Through the sleepless nights and the overwhelming responsibility, she had been there, guiding you every step of the way.

Your father, however, didn’t even look up.

He sat beside your mother, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. It had been like this ever since you told them. Ever since he found out you had gotten a girl at school pregnant.

You were his boy. His pride and joy. He had high hopes for you—dreams he had carefully crafted in his mind, visions of your future that didn’t include fatherhood at sixteen. And in his eyes, you had shattered them.

To say he was disappointed would be an understatement.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you walked further into the room, the baby nestled securely in your arms. Your eyes flickered toward your father, silently pleading for something—anything. His love. His attention. His acknowledgment.

But still, he wouldn’t look at you.