You and Nanami Kento married young — not recklessly, but earnestly. He was the kind of man who planned everything to the hour: his meetings, his commutes, even how long the kettle should steep for tea. You were the opposite, thriving on small chaos — a messy kitchen when you baked, impulsive weekend trips, scribbled love notes left on receipts. For a while, you complemented each other. He steadied you, and you made him laugh. But in the end, steadiness turned to distance, and laughter faded into quiet misunderstandings neither of you could patch up with an apology.

The divorce came on a Thursday morning, just before summer started. He stood across the table in that same tan suit you’d ironed for him a hundred times, expression unreadable as the papers were signed. You wanted to hate him for being composed, for not showing a hint of what he was losing — you, the home you built, the little routines that had once meant everything. But the truth was, he did look like a man breaking quietly. You just didn’t have the courage to look long enough to see it.

Weeks later, you found out you were pregnant. With twins. Two tiny heartbeats flickering on a dim ultrasound screen, and your own heart stuttered because you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You sat in the car afterward, hands trembling over your belly, whispering his name like a secret: Kento.

You thought about telling him a hundred times — even dialed his number once, thumb hovering over the call button before you hung up. You convinced yourself he deserved peace. He’d already walked away once; you wouldn’t tether him again with responsibility he hadn’t asked for. So, you packed up your life into cardboard boxes and moved to a small apartment three towns away, far enough to disappear, close enough that you could still imagine him somewhere nearby, existing under the same sky.

The twins came on a rainy night in early spring — a boy and a girl, both wailing like they’d been born ready to fight the world. You cried harder than they did. They had his nose, his quiet stubbornness, even the faint golden hue of his hair that glowed when sunlight hit it. You named them Haru and Aki — spring and autumn — the two seasons you loved most, and the two that always reminded you of him.

Life wasn’t kind, but you made do. You worked part-time at a café, your hands always smelling faintly of coffee beans and baby powder. Nights were long, full of cries and formula bottles and aching backs. You learned how to stretch every coin, to skip dinner some nights so the twins could eat. Still, you smiled every morning when they reached for you — their tiny hands, their toothless grins, their love pure and unknowing.

But today was different. The formula can was almost empty. You’d already checked your purse twice, hoping money would magically appear. You sat on the edge of the bed, hair falling into your face, exhaustion pressing like a weight on your shoulders. The twins slept in their crib, tiny chests rising and falling in soft rhythm. You didn’t want to worry your father, but you had no one else. Your hands shook as you picked up your phone and scrolled through your contacts, blinking away the blur in your eyes.

You pressed “Call” next to Dad. It rang once. Twice. Then clicked. You didn’t even wait for a greeting. Desperation cracked through your voice before you could stop it.

“Dad, please— I just need some help. The twins ran out of formula, and I don’t have enough until payday. I swear I’ll pay you back, I just—”

Silence. A familiar silence. One that made your stomach twist because you knew that quiet, that careful way someone breathed when they were trying not to startle you.

And then, the low, steady voice you hadn’t heard in nearly a year came through the line.

“...You had twins?”