I wasn’t expecting anything unusual the morning a man in a charcoal coat showed up on my porch. Honestly, I was just trying to survive breakfast.
One kid was crying because her braid was “tilting wrong.”
Another was grieving a lost teddy bear like it was a national tragedy.
My five-year-old was pouring syrup across the kitchen floor like he was baptizing it.
The dog was delighted. I was not.
My name is Lucas. I’m 42, a widower, and father of four. Life hasn’t been gentle these past two years. When our youngest, Grace, was born, my wife Emma got sick. We hoped it was exhaustion. But cancer does not care about hope. It took her fast, and since then, I’ve been raising four kids with duct tape, late shifts, and whatever strength grief leaves behind.
The day before the Mercedes appeared, something unexpected happened at the grocery store.
We stopped to grab the basics—milk, cereal, apples, diapers. My bank app was already giving me attitude, so I reminded myself not to buy anything unnecessary.
Meanwhile, my kids turned the store into a small, chaotic carnival.
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