EPOV

I sit on Sophie's bed, reading her the same story for the third time. It's 3 am. My eyes are burning. But she keeps insisting that she wants to hear it again. I can't deny her.

"So Amy said, 'No, Mr. Brent, you –'"

"– cannot take away my books."

I smirk. "Fifth time."

"Sorry." Her smile tells me she's not sorry at all for interrupting me yet again. I sigh. She looks at me eagerly, waiting for me to continue.

"Sweetheart, it's 3 am. You should sleep."

She clutches her teddy tighter and shakes her head.

I close the book softly and keep it on the bedside table behind me. She frowns and tries to reach past me to get it but I gather her in my arms instead.

"I'll read it again to you tomorrow night. I promise."

She pouts and tries to reach again. She's still upset.

"Hey." I hold her tighter. "Do I ever break my promises?"

She doesn't answer. I kiss the top of her head.

"You won't have to leave me, Sophie. You won't."

Her tiny voice shakes with tears. "Bree had to."

"But you're not Bree. I love you too, too much to let you go with your mom."

"But Bree's Daddy loves her too. Bree says so."

I wish kids didn't make so much sense. "I love you even more."

"So I'll stay with you? Do you pinky–promise that I'll stay with you?"

"Yes, yes, yes. The only thing that will change is that your mom won't stay with us anymore."

"Why not? Doesn't mom love me?"

I swallow hard. "She does. In her own way."

"What's her way?"

"Her way…is just her way."

"That sounds stupid, Daddy."

I tickle her sides. "What do you expect? I'm tired. It's way past my bedtime. And yours. I don't have enough energy to make sense."

"But I wanna know!"

I sigh in exasperation. "Know what, sweetheart?"

"Why do some mommies and daddies get divorce but others don't?"

I rub my face. "Because some mommies and daddies stop loving each other. But they do love their babies. So I love you. Your mom also loves you."

"You said that before too."

"And it's true."

"But you don't love mom?"

"I do. In my own way."

"Daddyyyyy," she whines. "I don't understand what 'own way' means."

"You will understand it after you've slept."

"No, no, wait. Tell me. Why don't you love mom? Mom's pretty."

I smile. "You think she's pretty?"

She nods. "She has hair like my Barbie."

"You have the same hair, too."

"But it's not as pretty as hers."

"It's even prettier."

"Does mom love you?" She's relentless.

"Sophie, I really think that's enough questions for the day."

She keeps looking at me with wide eyes till I give in.

"She…likes me. I like her too. But not enough to stay with each other."

"But you like me enough to stay with me?"

This is the hundredth time I am answering this question. "Yes."

"Good. 'Cause I like you too. I like mom too, but I like you even more."

And I will never tire of hearing that.

"That's very nice. Now can we please sleep?"

She thinks over it for a moment, before blurting out, "What if I sleep and you sleep and while we're sleeping mom takes me back to grandma's place?"

My throat is tight. "She won't. She's sleeping too. In the room upstairs."

"But what if she wakes up, Daddy?"

I take her little face in my hands and speak slowly. "I won't let her take you away."

"But –"

"Shhh. I won't. That's a promise."

Her face scrunches up as she processes this. "Will you sleep with me here for now?"

I sigh. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"And Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Will you read Amy's story one last time?"

I groan. "Sophie…"

"The last. Promise. See, I'm closing my eyes too," she says and snuggles to my side, pulling the blanket over us and closing her eyes dutifully.

I shake my head and realize that if she asked me to bring the moon…I'd probably find a way to make that happen, too.

"One day, Amy didn't want to go to school…"

BPOV

I throw down this fucking baby book and almost wish I could burn it. It's useless. Useless. This book tells me pointless information that is of no help when it comes to tackling a two year old.

I rub my face to keep myself awake. I didn't sleep well last night – it was difficult to fall back asleep after Edward got a call from Tanya and left. There was too much on my mind. I couldn't shut off my thoughts. And anyway, I had a Sunday to sleep in, right?

Wrong.

Maria fell sick. Even this morning she threw up thrice. She called me to take care of her daughter Andrea while she went to visit the doctor.

Before she left, she did tell me that she suspects she is pregnant again. And that if she is, she has no idea who the father is. I don't know which of the two things bothers me more.

I am tired and frustrated and this fucking kid doesn't want to fucking sleep and Edward hasn't called me all day and I am worried.

I'm worried a lot lately.

All night, in and out of sleep, I wondered what it must be like to be a parent. One phone call and Edward was out of the door in two minutes flat. Maria has no idea who the father of her baby might be, but she wrapped her arms around her stomach and told me with a teary smile that she could be expecting. Happiness radiated from her. She might not even have enough to take care of the kid – God knows she kills herself trying to feed Andrea – and yet wonder poured from her eyes.

I keep thinking of my father. And it sucks because every memory is laced with pain. With shame. With guilt.

With love.

A love I stomped allover and a love I spat on and kicked away.

Christ, I don't even know if he's still alive. What kind of a person does that make me?

And then I wonder – why didn't he try? Why didn't he try to find me? How much does he hate me now, that he doesn't even care?

Maybe Charlie is more like Tanya in that way.

"Where Mama?" The small voice asks me for what seems like the hundredth time. She doesn't speak much. She only wails. And screams. And throws things. Maybe all two year olds are like that?

"She'll be here soon," I assure her in the calmest possible voice. I've been assuring her for the past six hours, though. Maria isn't picking up the phone and I am even more worried now.

I also have a raging headache because this kid won't stop watching Dora the Explorer. I don't care how psychotic this is, but sometimes I just want to pick a gun and shoot that bitch down.

Twenty more minutes of this torture, and finally Maria arrives, breathless and soaked from head to toe. She explains how she walked more than half the way because the traffic jam was just that bad because of the rain.

I hadn't even realized that it was raining.

She tells me that she has food poisoning – that the pregnancy thing was just a scare. She tells me she isn't sure if she should be relieved or disappointed.

I tell her I'm not so sure either.

Maria lets me borrow an umbrella so I can take the short walk to my home. She wasn't kidding – it's a torrential downpour. Despite the umbrella, my jeans still get soaked.

By the time I reach home, I am shivering and it's dark outside. I take off my jeans and pick up my phone to call Edward. Except I don't.

Because when I scan my small contact list, I still see Charlie's name. I still face the fact that whether he loves me or not, I will always be his daughter. That my indiscretions and wrongdoings will not change a childhood I was blessed to have. A childhood Andrea won't have. A childhood Sophie won't have.

Both my parents loved me. While I may not be worthy of that love anymore (I bet even my mom looks down on me from heaven, in utter disgust), I did then and I still do love them back. I pace around my bedroom what seems like hours.

And then I take a deep breath and call him.

It rings and rings and rings and no one picks it up. Just like that – my heart sinks. Does he not live there anymore? Is he not okay? Is he…dead? Irrational panic grips my body and my throat closes.

I call again. And yet again it rings forever but no one answers.

I call yet again. Same, same, same.

No. I refuse to accept that something is wrong. I can't. Not now. I can't lose him now. Not when I have finally found the courage to find him.

So I dial again.

On the fifth ring, there's a click. And then there's a sound of shuffling on the other end. And then there's his voice – gruff and deep, annoyed and sleepy.

"Hello?"

I can't answer. I feel like I'll scream. I clamp a hand around my mouth and feel the tears on my face.

"Hello?" he says again. I hear the frustration in his voice.

I take a shaky breath.

"Look, if you're calling so relentlessly, you better have one goddamn good reason. And if you called as a prank, I'll have you know I'm a retired Police Chief and I can still get your ass hauled into jail."

I kind of want to laugh. I mostly want to cry.

I kind of sob.

"Hi, Daddy."

And there's home.