Played Dad, Lost Me
Saw us in the garden, tiny fingers in mine.
He'd be the tough-love dad doing math problems with the kid at the table.
I'd handle the rest, every scraped knee and bedtime story.
We fought over how to raise them—me, all about ambition; him, just wanting happy and healthy.
Our first real fight was over that. Loud. Messy. Real.
Now? Watching him lose it, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched—
I felt nothing. Just sick.
"You don't get to talk about him, Quentin. That baby was doomed from day one. Nobody wanted him. Why bring him here just to suffer?"