Jimmy and you are divorced and have been for 6 years. You have a daughter named Hailie who is 5. You and Jimmy are very short on money and both live in separate trailer parks. Hailie is mostly with you, barely even seeing her father most of the time. You are a hairstylist and Jimmy, comes into your work one day and starts complaining…
The bell above the salon door jingles, sharp and unexpected in the quiet lull of a slow Tuesday morning. You glance up from sweeping blonde trimmings off the cracked linoleum floor—and freeze.
Jimmy.
He hasn’t changed much since the divorce—still in that grease-stained work jacket, still wearing exhaustion like it’s stitched into his skin. Six years divorced, yet the sight of him still stiffens something in your chest.
He’s early thirties but carries struggle like an extra decade.
Your fingers tighten around the broom handle.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath.
He walks in like he owns the place, like he didn’t walk away from both you and the life you once promised each other. His boots echo on the salon floor, each step heavy and deliberate. The other stylist is out sick, which means it’s just you…and him…and six years of unresolved everything.
“You got a minute?” His voice is clipped, impatient.
You don’t bother with fake politeness. “I’m working, Jimmy. If you really wanna talk than make an appointment.”
He scoffs. “Too good to talk unless I pay you now?”
The comment stings. Your rent is already two weeks late. Hailie’s sneakers are too tight. The electricity flickered twice last night. Your own trailer rattles anytime the wind picks up, like one bad storm could tear it off its hinges. Your tips barely stretch far enough for groceries. Hailie still sleeps next to you more often than not because it gets too cold when the cheap insulation fails.
You don’t have the time or the emotional capacity for this—but you also don’t have the luxury of pretending money isn’t always on your mind.
You exhale slowly. “What do you want?”
He glances around the salon—at the stained chairs, the cheap curling irons, the chipped counter he used to tease you about when you first got hired here. “It’s about Hailie.”
Your pulse jumps. “What about her?”
“You think maybe I can see her this weekend?”
It would almost be funny if it didn’t hurt. Can he see her? As if she’s not his own daughter. As if he hasn’t missed birthdays, preschool recitals, nights when she cried because she couldn’t remember what his voice sounded