He used to watch families the way thirsty men stare at water.
Every evening, on his walk back from the factory, he would slow down near the park. Parents laughing. Kids chasing bubbles. Mothers scolding their sons with that soft, annoyed love.
He stood outside all of that — a boy from an orphanage who never even knew if his parents were alive or just tired of him.
But he held a quiet dream, like a candle cupped between shaking hands:
**"My child will never feel what I felt. They will never be alone."**
Years later, when he met the girl who carried the same emptiness in her eyes — an orphan like him — it felt like two broken halves clicking together. They weren't perfect, but they held each other through storms, through nights when there was nothing in the house except hope and one warm blanket.
He worked. She worked. They built something that felt like a future.
And when she told him she was pregnant, he cried harder than she did.
The labor came early.
He was at work when the call came.
"Bro, don't panic," his friend said, breathless on the phone. "We're taking her to the hospital. Just come fast."
He ran out of the factory still in his dusty boots.
Every step felt like a countdown.
His friend's car skidded in front of the gate, door already open.
"Come on, she's asking for you!"
He jumped in.
In the back of the car, he kept whispering,
"Just wait, my love. I'm coming. I'm coming."
For once in his life, everything was lining up — a wife he adored, a son waiting to meet him, a family he fought his entire life to have.
The old woman stepped onto the road without looking.
The truck in front slammed its brakes.
His friend yanked the wheel.
Metal screamed.
The world flipped.
The car crushed inward like a dying animal.
He tasted blood.
He saw flames licking the edges of the engine.
His friend was unconscious beside him.
He didn't think.
He just moved.
He shoved his friend out through the shattered window with the last strength in his arms.
"Go—" he choked.
"Tell her… I tried."
The fire met the fuel tank.
There wasn't time for fear.
Only one last thought:
**At least my boy will know I didn't run from him.**
And then the world burned white.
In the hospital, she held their newborn son, tears of joy drying on her cheeks.
"He has your eyes," she whispered. "You're going to love him. You waited so long…"
Then the door opened.
Her friend stood there, shaking, unable to speak.
One look.
That was all it took.
Her voice broke, but her heart didn't.
Not fully.
She kissed her baby's forehead and whispered into his tiny curls:
"Your father wanted to be everything he never had.
So I'll be everything for you.
I'll be both.
For him."