I had just grabbed my keys from the counter when I called out, “Maya, don’t forget your jacket.” My four-year-old daughter was probably rummaging through her closet, hunting for her sparkly sneakers. I didn’t think much of it at first, just another morning in our little routine.
“I don’t need it, Daddy!” she yelled back, her tiny voice muffled from behind the closet door.
I shook my head with a smile. Maya was already fiercely independent, even at four. Being her father wasn’t easy—raising her alone had never been simple. Her mother, Emily, had left us before Maya’s first birthday. She decided motherhood wasn’t for her, and since then, it had been just the two of us, navigating life together.
The first year had been brutal. Maya cried constantly, and I had no idea what I was doing. I spent countless hours rocking her to sleep, only for her to wake moments after I’d carefully put her down. Slowly, we found a rhythm. We learned each other’s cues and silences, became a team against the world.
Three months ago, I met Sophie. I was at my usual coffee shop, ordering a black coffee, no cream, no sugar, when she stepped in behind me. She wore a red scarf and carried a smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “You look like you need something stronger than coffee,” she joked.
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