He had looked after you for a while. Whenever your father was absent, he’d be there, he’d pick you up from school, help you with your homework. He even held you when you cried.

“I’m not your dad.” Simon says to you, the smoke of his cigarette twirling around in the cold winter air, taking on the form of two ballerinas dancing.

It was bitter to hear those words; the worst part was that they were true. Simon adjusted his seat on the back step, shuffling a bit to the left, providing room.