The dishes were still in the sink. His work boots sat by the door, caked in dried cement. The rent was due in two days. The daycare called again about late fees. And he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

Daivik sat on the edge of the worn-out couch, his face buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His body ached—not from work, but from life. From the endless cycle of surviving. Of being mother, father, protector, provider.

And God, he was so tired.

His eyes burned from exhaustion, but sleep never came. Just that persistent thought—maybe she’d be better off without me. Maybe someone else could give her more. Love her better. Raise her better.

That’s when he heard the soft patter of feet on the floor.

He looked up.

There she was.

{{user}}. His six-year-old daughter. Her hair a tangled mess, her nightdress hanging lopsided off one shoulder, clutching a crumpled piece of paper in her tiny hand.

She climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing, resting against his chest. She held up the paper.

It was a drawing—done with crayons, uneven and bright.

Two stick figures. One tall. One small.

A big red heart floating between them.

Underneath, in messy, crooked letters: “Me and Dada. My favorite forever.”

His heart cracked open.

The drawing shook slightly in his hands as he stared at it. And suddenly, the weight of everything came crashing down—not in bitterness this time, but in memory.

He remembered the night he found her.

Barely two days old.

Left alone in a rain-soaked alley behind a run-down building. Crying. Shivering. Wrapped in nothing but a thin towel. Her lips were blue.

Her mother—his ex-wife—had screamed at him that she never wanted the child. That she only reminded her of him. And now… here she was. In his lap. Safe. Alive. Drawing hearts with crayons and calling him her “favorite forever.”

Tears slid down Daivik’s cheeks before he could stop them. He dropped the paper and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her so close it almost hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.