Not just the meaning, but the casual certainty with which he said them. As if fatherhood had an off-switch. As if I hadn’t been working just as hard, just as long, with zero off-days. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just walked into Rosie’s room, cleaned her up, and whispered, “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s got you.”But who had me? That’s when I remembered the number tucked in a shoebox in my closet—Walter, Cole’s estranged father.

They hadn’t spoken in years, but I’d reached out after Rosie was born, just once, to send him a photo. He replied with: “She’s beautiful. Thank you for this kindness I don’t deserve.” I picked up the phone and called him.The next morning, at 7:45 a.m., Walter showed up. He looked older than I remembered, nervous, holding