I’m 32, single, and went back to my hometown for the holidays for the first time in over five years.
“That’s him.”
I was at one of those picture-perfect Christmas markets downtown. Lights strung everywhere. Wooden stalls. Kids running around with sticky faces. The air smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and cold.
I was walking around with a paper cup of hot chocolate, trying to feel nostalgic and not nauseous, when I heard a little gasp.
I’m 32, single, and went back to my hometown for the holidays for the first time in over five years.
“That’s him.”
I was at one of those picture-perfect Christmas markets downtown. Lights strung everywhere. Wooden stalls. Kids running around with sticky faces. The air smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and cold.
I was walking around with a paper cup of hot chocolate, trying to feel nostalgic and not nauseous, when I heard a little gasp.
“No,” she said. “We had a massive fight. I moved out. Got a job at the salon. Small apartment. Less help from my parents, but enough that we didn’t starve. I chose Hazel.”
“Okay,” I said. “You chose her over comfort. Good. But you still didn’t call me.”
Her shoulders sagged. “My dad told me if I told you, you’d try to fight them,” she said. “That you’d wreck your life in court and they’d still win. He said I’d end up resenting you.”
“I told myself I was ‘protecting’ you.”
“And you listened,” I said.
“I was scared,” she said quietly. “And selfish. I told myself I was ‘protecting’ you. Really I was just avoiding the hardest conversation of my life.”
“What does Hazel know?” I asked.
“That her dad isn’t here because I hurt him,” she said. “I didn’t say your name. I just… left it at that.”
It hurt more than I expected.
“I’m angry.”
“She found old pictures of you last year,” June added. “I keep them in my nightstand. I thought she couldn’t reach it. She started asking who you were. Why I cry when I look at you.”
“You still cry about me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
A broken laugh escaped her. “More than I should,” she said. “Hazel hears sometimes. Hence the Christmas market moment.”
I stared at my coffee.
“I’m angry.”
“Do you actually want me in her life?”
“You should be,” she replied. “I stole five years from you.”
“You stole five years from her too.”
Tears spilled over. She didn’t wipe them away. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the part that keeps me up at night.”
“Do you actually want me in her life?” I asked. “Or are you just trying to clear your conscience?”
“I want you in her life,” she said, steady now. “If you walked away today, I’d have to live with that. But I need you to at least know she exists.”
“We can go. If you’re ready.”
I let out a long breath.
“I want to meet her,” I said. “Properly. Not as ‘the man Mom cries about.’ As her father.”
June’s mouth fell open for a second, then she nodded fast. “She’s with my neighbor right now,” she said. “We can go. If you’re ready.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” I said. “But yeah. Let’s go.”
Her apartment was small, cluttered, and very clearly lived in by a five-year-old.
“I brought someone to meet you.”
Her neighbor, Mel, opened the door. “So this is Daniel,” she said, looking me over. “Yeah. The kid looks like him, alright.”
I managed a weak smile.
June led me down the hall and tapped on a half-open door.
“Hey, bug,” she said softly. “I brought someone to meet you.”
Hazel was on the floor, coloring a dinosaur. Crayons everywhere.
“Remember the man in the pictures in my drawer?”
She looked up, saw me, and her eyes went huge.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s me.”
June sat on the small bed. “Hazel, remember the man in the pictures in my drawer?” she asked.
Hazel nodded slowly.
“This is him,” June said. “His name is Daniel.”
“Why weren’t you here?”
Hazel studied me, serious.
“And he’s also…” June’s voice shook. “He’s your dad.”
Hazel’s eyes flicked between us. “My real dad?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m your dad.”
She stared at me like she was trying to see the truth under my skin.
“Why weren’t you here?”
“You didn’t tell him?”
I glanced at June. She gave me a tiny nod.
“I didn’t know about you,” I said. “Your mom didn’t tell me. If I had known, I would’ve been here.”
Hazel turned to June. “You didn’t tell him?”
June swallowed. “No, baby,” she said. “I was scared, and I made a very bad choice.”
Hazel thought about that.
“You cry about him.”
“You cry about him,” she said to her mom.
“I do,” June said.
Hazel turned back to me. “Do you cry?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I cried last night.”
She considered that. “Do you like dinosaurs?” she asked.
“Can I hug you?”
I almost laughed. “I love dinosaurs,” I said. “When I was little, I wanted to be a paleontologist.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s the bone one!”
“Yeah,” I said. “The bone one.”
She stepped closer, still serious. “Can I hug you?” she asked.
My throat closed up.
“Can I call you Dad?”
“Please,” I said.
She wrapped her arms around my waist. It was a small, careful hug, like she wasn’t totally sure yet.
I hugged her back, gently and shaking.
“Can I call you Dad?” she asked into my sweater.
I had to swallow twice before I could answer.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “You can.”
“I don’t know how to fix what I did.”
We spent the next couple of hours on her floor. She showed me her dinosaur collection. Told me which ones were “cool” and which ones were “wrong because of feathers.”
Every time I looked up, June was in the doorway, watching with this raw, hopeful expression.
Eventually, Hazel curled up on the bed with a stuffed triceratops and fell asleep.
June walked me to the door.
“Do you… hate me?”
“I don’t know how to fix what I did,” she said. “To you. To her.”
“We start by not lying anymore,” I said. “By showing up.”
She nodded. “Do you… hate me?” she asked.
I thought about it.
“I’m furious with you,” I said. “I don’t trust you yet. But I don’t hate you.”
“I’m here for her.”
Tears filled her eyes again. “I never stopped loving you,” she said quietly. “That’s the messed-up part.”
I gave a short, tired laugh. “Yeah,” I said. “Same.”
We stood there in the doorway, close but not touching.
“I’m here for her,” I said. “Whatever happens with us, I’m her dad now. That doesn’t go away.”
“It never should have,” she said. “Thank you for not walking out.”
“I thought about it.”
I shrugged, feeling more fragile than I wanted to admit. “I thought about it,” I said. “Then she showed me her dinosaurs, and that was it.”
June smiled, small and real. “She’s good at that,” she said.
“Goodnight, June,” I said.
“Goodnight, Daniel,” she replied.
I stepped out into the cold. The Christmas lights over the street blurred at the edges.
I don’t know if June and I will ever work again.
I went home for the holidays expecting awkward small talk and too much food.
Instead, I found out I have a five-year-old daughter who hugs me and calls me Dad, and a first love who still keeps my picture in her drawer and cries over it.
I don’t know if June and I will ever work again.
But I do know this:
I’m not running anymore.