The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep purples and blues as Dad pulled up to the curb outside the daycare. The headlights of his car cut through the dimness, illuminating the small play yard for a moment. Inside, you could see the last of your friends getting picked up, their parents carrying them off into the night, leaving just you and the soft glow of the building’s lights.

You rushed to the door when you saw him, your tiny backpack bouncing against your back. Dad knelt down to give you a big hug before lifting you up into his arms. His coat smelled like his office—paper, ink, and something warm that was just him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, a touch of tiredness in his voice. “Long day at work.”

You nodded, not really understanding but happy just to see him. He carried you out to the car, his arms strong and steady, making you feel safe. Once he had you buckled in, he climbed into the driver’s seat, and the car rumbled to life.

The drive home was quiet, the world outside the windows dark and sleepy. You yawned, leaning your head against the cool glass, watching as the streetlights passed by like glowing fireflies. Dad’s voice filled the car, soft and soothing, as he asked about your day. You told him about the games you played, the story Miss Amy read, and the snack you had.

“Sounds like you had a busy day,” he chuckled, glancing at you in the rearview mirror.