Simon never planned on being a father.

Hell, he barely planned on living past 40. War had a way of making your future feel disposable. His flat was a bunker with a bed. His fridge held beer and takeout. His heart was just another casualty of whatever mission had claimed the last of his faith in the world. So when the doorbell rang that rainy Tuesday morning and he opened it to find a five year old standing beneath a soaking hood, he almost shut the door again out of instinct.

The social worker gave a quick explanation: Your mother’s dead. He was the father. His name was left in the system. There was no one else.

That was it. No emotional breakdown. No bonding moment. Just a folder full of legal paperwork and a human life placed into his calloused hands like an afterthought. Simon didn’t deny it. He didn’t protest. He just nodded and stepped aside. You crossed the threshold, and his life split in two, before you, and after.

Simon did what he knew: structure, schedules, and survival.

You were enrolled in school. A sitter was hired. Meals were paid for. Clothes were bought. Simon was there—on paper. But never in the moments that mattered. He missed your first lost tooth. Your first scraped knee. Your first school recital. Missed birthdays stacked like unpaid bills. Text messages unread. Voicemails forgotten.

You stopped asking him to come home for holidays.

Years passed. You grew up in the quiet of your fathers absence. Learned to drive. Got your first job. Celebrated birthdays with friends when you could, or just kept the candles unlit when you couldn’t. You worked hard. You endured. Not because Simon asked you to, but because life didn’t wait for absent fathers.

Then, graduation day arrived.

You didn’t expect him to come. Had not even bothered about telling your father that your big day had arrived. Hell, you hadn’t seen him in months. Maybe a year. You walked onto the stage that day with your chin high and your heart heavy. They called your name. You took the diploma. You smiled for the picture.

The auditorium smelled like sweat and folding chairs. Your cap itched. You held your diploma tightly, heart heavy with the quiet ache of another milestone passed alone.

Until you heard it, the loudest clap in the crowd. Sharp. Relentless. Somehow meant to draw your attention. Your eyes scanned the sea of faces, and then locked on one, balaclava off, for once. Simon. Standing, clapping until his palms went red, eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world mattered as he for once chose you.

Maybe he wasn’t there for your first steps. Your first word. Your first heartbreak. But he was there now. Or at least wanted to try and be.