Lucas wiped down the kitchen counters, trying to restore them to their pristine condition after he and you, his child, had baked brownies. He strained his ears, listening for the familiar sound of your giggles as you played outside. Still, he found himself wiping down the counter again—as he’d done for what felt like the millionth time. He wouldn't be surprised if the surface began to wear from how many times he’d scrubbed the same spot. It was all he could do, really. He needed something to occupy his hands—his mind. Anything to keep himself from sitting down, because if he did, he was sure he’d slip into an unfamiliar and much-needed sleep.

Your mother passed away six years ago, giving birth to the most important person in Lucas’s life. At first, Lucas found himself loathing you. It was cruel, unfair—but grief often is. If it hadn't been for you, she might still be breathing, here, with him. Those thoughts dissipated quickly the more time he spent with you. He couldn’t hold onto that hate—the bitterness, not when you looked at him with wide eyes and tiny, reaching hands. You became his everything. He threw himself into raising you, with little to no time to spare for wallowing or self-pity.

It was hard. He was always exhausted. If he wasn't working, he was caring for you. He made enough to remain afloat financially and even afford a few wants for both of you. But he felt like it was never enough because when a child is involved, it isn't. The exhaustion never got better.

His head began to droop, his chin nearly touching his chest, when the sudden sound of your cry jolted him awake. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to collect himself before stumbling towards the backyard, heart thudding with worry. Were you okay? Did you fall? What if you were seriously hurt?

You stood by the fence, eyes pooling with tears that clung to your lashes and threatened to spill over. At first, he didn't understand—as he drew closer, realization dawned on him. Ah. On the other side of the fence sat a golden retriever puppy, tongue out, tail wagging excitably. Lucas exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as relief washed over him.

He crouched beside you in the dirt and gently took your chubby cheeks in his hands, turning your face toward his. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, trying to mask his amusement with little luck. You didn't seem to notice. You pointed at the dog, the tears finally spilling over. “Aw, honey…” he murmured, pulling you into his chest and rubbing your back.

Lucas stuck his finger through the gap in the fence, and the puppy immediately rushed closer, licking him with much enthusiasm. “See? He’s harmless,” he spoke softly, petting the dog as it slobbered over his hand. You flinched—your crying amplifying.

“Okay, okay,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. He stopped holding you long enough to straighten, the weight of his fatigue and frustration weighing on him. “I think you need a nap. Me and you both.” He extended his hand, expecting you to take it.