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I force myself to lock my phone and drive to the preschool.

Theo’s school is already a zoo when I pull up. Parents crowding the lobby, kids running in the halls with backpacks half-zipped and construction-paper art crumpled in their fists.

Theo spots me before I even make it fully inside his classroom.

“Daddy!” He comes in hot, cast bumping my hip as he slams into me.

“Hey buddy.” I ruffle his hair and take his backpack before he can drag it on the ground. “We’re going to Mom’s tonight to pack boxes. You get to help put tape on things.”

His eyes light up like I just offered him a chainsaw. “Yes!”

Mrs. Alvarez is by the door with the clipboard. The assistant, Miss Jenna, is stacking tiny chairs and already smiling at me like I hung the moon just for showing up.

“Mr. Crane,” Mrs. Alvarez says. “Just wanted to let you know we passed out Theo’s birthday invitations earlier this week. I keep forgetting to mention it.”

“Yeah, thanks. Blaire mentioned a few parents already have RSVP’d, should be a good time.” I say, hand tightening on Theo’s as he tries to drag me out of the room. “Oh, while I have you, I wanted to ask about if I could bring in cupcakes for him to share in class on his birthday, and how many kids are in the class normally.”

“We have twenty-two including Theo,” Mrs. Alvarez says. “And that’s very sweet. The kids will love cupcakes. Just no peanuts.”

Miss Jenna pipes up, still beaming. “Theo talks about you all the time, and it’s great to see such an active dad. You’re really Father of the year.”

I nod because she means it as a compliment.

Inside, something ugly and familiar twists.

I get this a lot, especially the last couple weeks that I’ve been the one bringing Theo in and picking him up everyday. People act like just showing up is some rare, award-worthy trick. Blaire does the same shit I do—more, actually—and nobody ever stops her in a doorway to tell her she’s mother of the year. She’s just a mom. Bare minimum.

I hate the double standard. I hate that it still works on me, that some small, stupid part of me used to like the praise because it made me feel like I wasn’t failing as a father if everyone around me keeps saying how amazing I am. Now it just pisses me off.

“Thanks,” I say, because snapping at a preschool teacher about feminism isn’t going to help anybody.

Theo’s already tugging my hand toward the door, talking a mile a minute about helping pack up his toys to take to my house.

I get him buckled into his car seat before I check my phone again. Still nothing. Results pending. At this rate we’re not getting them back tonight. Which means another night of trying and failing not to cum in my pants while Blaire shows more discipline than a trained field operative.

Fucking great.

***

Theo’s shoes are off before the door even shuts.

One hits the wall. The other skids under the hall table like it has a personal vendetta.

I kick the door closed with my heel, Taco Bell bags in one hand, Theo’s backpack in the other.

“Shoes in the basket,” I call after him. “We’ve talked about this.”

Blaire’s apartment looks half-gutted. Boxes stacked along the living room wall. Pictures down. Kitchen cabinets empty except for paper plates and a roll of paper towels. It smells like cardboard and the last of her vanilla candle.

Blaire appears from the bedroom in an old hoodie and shorts, hair piled on top of her head, a strip of packing tape stuck to her sleeve. She takes one look at the shoes, then at me, and the corner of her mouth lifts.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I hold up the bags. “Everything here’s packed, so I went with the food of champions.”

“You’re a god.” She takes one of the bags, fingers brushing mine longer than they need to. “Theo! Dinner!”

He materializes like the taco gremlin he is, climbs onto a chair, and immediately starts unwrapping a taco with his good hand.