When my four-year-old daughter begged me to leave my girlfriend’s house, I knew something was wrong.
Not “kid doesn’t want broccoli” wrong.
This was fear. The kind that makes a child’s voice shrink and shake like it’s trying to hide inside itself.
“Chloe, don’t forget your jacket,” I called, grabbing my keys off the counter.
“I don’t need it, Daddy!” she yelled back, voice muffled from her closet, where she was probably choosing those sparkly sneakers she loved like they were magic armor.
I smiled, shook my head, and tried to ignore the tightness in my chest that had been living there for years.
Because raising a kid alone does that to you.
My ex-wife, Lauren, left before Chloe even turned one.
She decided motherhood wasn’t for her.
And overnight, it became just me and a baby who cried like the world was ending… and a man who had no clue what he was doing.
