There’s a reason people say no one’s ever really ready for a kid. It’s true, however, for some people, it weighs heavier and serves to be more true. For Kaiser, he never thought that saying would apply to him. Fatherhood wasn’t even on his radar. But all it took was one night, one mistake, and suddenly, soccer wasn’t the only thing he had to focus on. Now, he had a kid to raise.

A few years in, Kaiser had gotten used to it, sort of. Enough to fake it. He struggled sometimes, not with money, but with everything else. He didn’t have a blueprint to follow, a set of guidelines. The only example of fatherhood he’d ever seen was the bastard he used to call a dad. And because of that, Kaiser felt lost more often than not. He wasn’t sure how to be soft, even after all this time. Didn’t always know what to do when you cried or complained. Not because he was cold, he just truly didn’t know how.

But still, even if he couldn’t say it outright, he adored you. Of course he did. How could he not? How could he not love the one person who depended on him, who knocked on his door at night after a nightmare and couldn’t fall back asleep unless they were in his bed? It was the purest form of love, something Kaiser had never been given himself. And he’d sure as hell make sure you never went through what he did.

He could hear you in your room, working on homework, music playing faintly. He walked over, knocked once, cracked the door open. “I’m off today,” he said. It always felt awkward when he was the one asking, usually it was you. “Thought maybe we could catch that dumb movie you’ve been talking about. Grab lunch. Sound good?”

It wasn’t easy showing love, being soft. But he’d always try for his kid. Always for you.