I never planned to be a single dad. Life just rerouted itself the day Emma’s mom packed a small bag, said she needed “space,” and walked out when our daughter was three. I kept waiting for a call, a text, anything. Nothing came. A month later, reality settled in: it was just me and Emma now.
So I learned the things no handbook prepares you for — how to braid hair without causing tears, how to make pretend games feel like Broadway, how to be firm and gentle in the same breath. My parents became my backup crew. They showed up, helped out, and proved that the saying it takes a village is absolutely true.
By Thanksgiving, exhaustion was my normal state of being, but I was grateful to be driving Emma to my parents’ place. She was in the backseat singing “Jingle Bells” with full holiday enthusiasm while the first snow of the season floated down like powdered sugar over the highway.
That’s when I saw it — a battered old sedan pulled over on the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly. An elderly couple stood beside it, their thin jackets no match for the biting wind. The woman was trembling. The man stared at a flat tire in total defeat.
I pulled over instantly.
“Stay in your seat, sweetheart,” I told Emma.
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