Chapter 1

My coworker shoved me out of the burning car, saving my life.

He didn't make it. His wife was about to give birth.

I quit my job and became a stay-at-home dad for six years.

I did the laundry, cooked, and took him to kindergarten. She didn't want to start a family with me, and I didn't mind.

For six years, we never had a single fight.

Until one day at the police station, six-year-old Felix pointed at me and said, "Officer, I don't know this guy. He's trying to kidnap me."

I looked at him and couldn't help but laugh.

Six years' worth of debt, finally settled. Guessed who freaked out first after I walked out of the police station?

*****

One of the fluorescent lights in the police station was flickering, buzzing like the tension in my head.

Felix Holden sat across from the officer. He swung his little legs, wearing a look of pure justice, like a tiny hero.

"Officer, I don't know this guy," he said, pointing at me.

For a six-year-old, he spoke so clearly and expressed himself smoothly.

I was the one who taught him.

From the moment he started babbling, I guided every word, every sound, teaching him each one myself.

I even taught him to say, "I don't know him."

The officer glanced at me, then at Felix, his face caught somewhere between awkward and confused.

He said, "Sir, the kid says he doesn't know you."

I lined up my driver's license, marriage certificate, and family record on the table, all nice and tidy.

I said, "Felix Holden, six years old, my stepson. His mom, Alysha Slater, is my wife."

The officer looked them over, saw everything checked out, and finally relaxed.

He said, "So it's just a misunderstanding. Maybe the kid just—"

"It's not a misunderstanding," I cut him off.

Felix kept swinging his legs, looking completely unbothered, with a hint of smugness on his face.

I knew that look all too well.

It was the same look Alysha had when she was bossing everyone around in a meeting.

I crouched down, looking him right in the eye. "Felix, be honest with me. Who told you to say that?"

He pouted. "Mom said you're not my dad. My dad is a hero. You're just a guy living in my house."

"Just a guy living in my house." I let those words sink in, my jaw twitching.

It had been six years, two thousand, one hundred and ninety days.

I got up at three to prepare pancake batter, started making breakfast at five, took him to kindergarten at seven, cleaned the house at nine, and went grocery shopping at eleven.

Then, I picked Felix up from school at three-thirty, helped him practice reading in the evening, and told him bedtime stories until he drifted off to sleep.

Yet Felix said I was just a guy living under his roof.

I guessed he had a point.

The house was under Jonas Holden's name, the car under Alysha Slater's, and every dollar in her account.

I really didn't count for anything.

"Alright," I said, standing up.

The officer was still talking, probably saying something like, "Kids say things they don't mean."

I didn't listen.

I slipped my marriage certificate back into my pocket, opened the door, and walked out of the police station.

The March wind still had a chill to it, stinging my face like a slap.

I stood on the steps, pulled out my phone, and sent Alysha a message. [Your son is at the Sunshine Road Police Station, saying I'm a kidnapper. Come pick him up.]

After sending it, I paused for a second, then added another line. [Tomorrow, we're going to the city hall.]

Fifteen seconds later, my phone started ringing.

I hit decline. I didn't want to hear her voice today.

After six years, I'd already said everything I needed to say.

Anything I hadn't said, I didn't need to anymore.

I walked down the steps.

Felix's cries echoed behind me. I guessed he finally realized no one was there for him anymore.

Back then, whenever he cried, my knees would buckle. But not today.

Today, my legs felt like steel.

I walked a thousand feet to the little breakfast café on the corner and ordered a sausage and cheddar croissant.

Alysha had always liked hers with avocado and mayonnaise. For six years, every croissant at home had been exactly that.

I fucking hated avocado.

The first bite exploded on my tongue, savoring the savory sausage, melted cheddar, buttery layers of croissant, and the richness of the eggs.

I sat on the curb with breakfast in hand, watching cars roll by.

Suddenly, I thought this road was so wide, and the wind felt amazing.

Damn, this croissant hit the spot.

Honestly, what went down six years ago was pretty straightforward.

Jonas and I were coworkers on the same project team, sitting next to each other at our desks and having lunch together in the cafeteria.

We weren't exactly ride-or-die friends.

At best, he'd bring an extra omelette for lunch and share it with me.

That night, we were working overtime until two in the morning and shared a ride home.

He sat in the front passenger seat, and I was in the back.

I was dead tired, half-asleep, mindlessly scrolling on my phone. Suddenly, a deafening crash.

*****