For years, it had just been me and Toby. His father slowly drifted out of our lives before Toby could even say “Daddy,” and I poured every ounce of myself into raising him. We built a quiet, simple world—just the two of us—and I’d convinced myself we didn’t need anyone else.
Then, on a rainy Thursday evening, everything began to change.
I was exhausted after a double shift at the hospital, riding the subway home with aching feet and a sleep-deprived brain. A stranger offered me his seat. I almost refused, but my body welcomed the kindness. He was reading Diary by Chuck Palahniuk, one of my favorite books. That’s what started it.
“You’re reading Palahniuk?” I asked, half-smiling.
He looked up, his eyes kind. “You’ve read him?”
We talked the entire ride. His name was Thomas.
By the time we reached my stop, he asked me to grab a coffee. I told him I had to pick up my son. Without hesitation, he said, “Bring him along.”
Something about the way he said it made me trust him.
Later that night, watching him listen to Toby’s animated dinosaur stories over cocoa, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—hope.
In the year that followed, Thomas became a steady presence in our lives. He never tried to take the place of Toby’s dad, just carved out a space as himself. Gentle. Patient. Present. One year after that subway ride, we were married. Toby was the ring bearer.
It felt like a fresh chapter. We were happy.
Until the morning Toby woke up sick.
“I’ll stay home with him,” Thomas offered, already in his pajamas. “I think I caught whatever he has.”
I hesitated. “You sure? I can call out.
He waved me off. “Go. I’ve got this.”
