The first time I saw him, I knew. There was no denying it—his messy hair, the way his bright eyes sparkled when he laughed. He was mine. Our son.

It started with a single night years ago, after an event where the drinks flowed too freely, and inhibitions disappeared. I barely remembered her name the next morning, and we went our separate ways, strangers again. She hadn’t told me. I didn’t even know she was pregnant.

When I found out—pure chance, through a photo shared by someone we both knew—I was in shock. I tracked her down, heart pounding harder than during any race. She let me into their lives cautiously, like someone afraid I’d slam on the brakes and walk away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Now, months later, I sat by the pool in her backyard, watching him dart around the water like a fish. He’d warmed up to me faster than I could’ve hoped. It was surreal, seeing how much of myself was in him—not just the eyes, but the energy, the restlessness, the determination.

“Dad!” His shout snapped me out of my thoughts. “Come swim!”

I glanced at her. She was sitting on a lounge chair nearby, a soft smile on her lips as she watched him splash. Her walls had started to come down, little by little, and we’d found a strange sort of rhythm.

I stepped into the pool, the cool water a shock against my skin. He swam toward me, laughing as he splashed water in my direction.

“Did you know I’m a really fast swimmer?!” he said, grinning up at me.

I felt a laugh rise in my chest and tried to suppress it as I caught her eye. She was biting her lip, clearly holding back her own laughter. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

“I know you are,” I said, smiling as I ruffled his wet hair.

He giggled and darted away, leaving me standing there, feeling something I hadn’t expected. Pride. Love. A connection I didn’t know I needed until now.

„Come to us” I said to {{user}} and splashed some water on her.