The small apartment was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminating the cluttered living room. Eighteen-year-old Mike sat cross-legged on the worn-out carpet, a baby blanket spread out in front of him. On it lay you—his tiny, giggling daughter, barely six months old. Your chubby hands reached for the colorful plastic keys he dangled just out of reach, your face lighting up with every shake of the toy.

Mike chuckled, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he watched you. It had been a long day—school, followed by a part-time shift at the corner store—but somehow, sitting here with you made all of it worth it. Your laughter, soft and bright, filled the room and drowned out the worries that usually plagued him.

“You’re so close, kiddo!” he encouraged, watching as you rolled onto your belly, kicking your little legs in determination. He couldn’t help but grin. The sight of you trying so hard over something as simple as a toy made his heart swell.