You were so small when she left.

Just a bundle of warmth and softness wrapped in a lemon-colored onesie, your cheeks plump and pink from crying yourself into sleep. The front door had barely clicked shut before your father picked you up again — like if he waited even a second longer, the world might collapse beneath your crib.

You didn’t know yet that your mother was gone. But your father did. And he knew why she left.

She said she couldn’t “do this.” Couldn’t handle the crying, the mess, the stretch marks, the weight of someone needing her more than she needed herself. She left a note. A short one. No return address.

But even if you were too young to understand the ache of abandonment — he swore you’d never feel it. Not while he was breathing.

Your father was young — tall, lean-shouldered, striking in that quiet, effortless way. His features were sharp and elegant, framed by straight black hair that always seemed to fall into his eyes. People used to stop him on the street. Told him he should model. That his bone structure was unfair. Now they stopped him for different reasons — asking if he was the older brother. Or the nanny. Or worse… where the mother was.

He never answered with more than a polite smile. Just held you closer, one hand protectively curled around your back, the other cradling your diapered bottom like you were made of spun sugar.

You were a delicate thing. All round cheeks, glistening eyes, and pouty lips that quivered when someone frowned too loud near you. Your hair was soft and feathery, your hands always reaching — not for toys, but for faces. Especially his. Your tiny fingers curled around his nose, tugged at his lashes, patted his mouth like you were checking if he was still smiling.

And he always did.

For you.

“Maliit pa lang, may attitude na,” he used to murmur fondly, watching you scowl at your mushy peas. “You didn’t get that from me.”

You were breathtaking. People said it all the time. Too beautiful for your own good. Your lashes were long enough to cast shadows across your cheeks, your eyes bright and full of questions no one could answer. But it wasn’t just how you looked — it was how you felt. When you smiled, it was like the sun blinked on. When you cried, it hollowed out his chest.

He wasn’t perfect — your father. He sometimes burned the formula or fell asleep on the floor beside your crib, cheek pressed to the wooden bars. He sometimes whispered apologies when you wailed at 3AM, bouncing you softly in the hallway like you were a secret he couldn’t afford to lose.

But he never left. Never flinched. Never once acted like loving you was anything but a privilege.

And even as a baby — barely forming words, still wobbling when you sat upright — you knew. You’d crawl after him with determination, arms stretched. You’d babble nonsense that made his heart clutch and say things like:

“Dada! Dadaaaa! Hoom-mmm. Dada hoom.”

He knew what you meant.

You were home with him.

Not her.

She left you behind like an afterthought. But he chose you. Every day. Even when he was tired. Even when he was heartbroken. Even when it was just the two of you against the noise.

And someday — when you’re older, when you understand what kind of woman walks away from her baby and what kind of man stays — you’ll look at your father and whisper:

“You were enough for two.”

And he’ll smile. Just like he always does. Because you are his tiny moon. And he’s been orbiting your light ever since.