Chapter 2

What happened six years ago is actually pretty simple.

Falcon and I were coworkers. Same project team, desks right next to each other, the kind of guys who grabbed lunch at the cafeteria together.

Nothing deeper than that — at most, he'd bring an extra sausage in his lunch and toss one my way.

We were pulling an all-nighter and shared a ride home around 2 a.m.

He took the passenger seat. I sat in the back. Dead tired, half-asleep, scrolling my phone.

Then came the impact. A semi. Running a red light.

The front of the car crumpled on impact. The steering wheel pinned the driver instantly.

The airbag hit me and my head was ringing. I couldn't see straight.

Falcon grabbed me from the front seat.

The traffic investigator told me later — he'd kicked open the rear door first, then shoved me out from behind.

Then the car caught fire. He never made it out.

At the funeral, Victoria stood there with her nine-month belly, and didn't cry once.

She stood perfectly straight, like a nail driven into the floor.

After everyone left, she called out to me. "Balder."

I turned around.

"Falcon's gone," she said. "The baby comes next month."

"Let me know if you need anything," I told her.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were red around the edges, but there were no tears.

"A child can't grow up without a father. Would you… would you marry me?"

I stood in the hallway of the funeral home. Outside, November wind. The overhead lights cast a cold, pale glow.

I understood what she meant.

I was twenty-eight. No wife. No girlfriend.

Falcon had used his life to push me out of that car. I owed him one.

"Okay," I said.

One word. Six years on the line.

By the time we went to register the marriage, her belly was enormous.

The clerk smiled and offered congratulations.

Victoria signed the form without expression and passed the pen to me.

"I want to say something first," she said.

"Go ahead."

"I'll have the baby myself. You just help take care of him. After that… I'm not going to have children with you."

I held the pen. A two-second pause.

"Fine."

"And," she looked at me, her tone as flat as if she were closing a business deal, "my career is in a growth phase. I don't have time to manage things at home. If you're willing — you could quit your job."

My salary at the time was decent. I was a core member of the project team.

"Fine," I said.

She nodded, stood up, and left.

Not a single "thank you." Not once, from start to finish.

I didn't blame her. She didn't think she owed me one.

In her mind, this was a debt I owed Falcon. And maybe she was right.

The day Jack was born, I waited outside the delivery room for six hours.

A nurse came out carrying a tiny, wrinkled, impossibly ugly baby.

"Congratulations," she said.

I took him. My hands were shaking. His eyes were shut tight, and he was screaming his lungs out.

I looked at him and thought: Falcon, can you see this? Your son is really, really ugly.

But alive. Alive is all that matters.

From that day on, I was officially a full-time stay-at-home dad.

Twenty-eight years old. Quit my job. Started learning how to mix formula, change diapers, and get a baby to stop crying.

The neighbors watched me like I was an exotic animal.

"Why is that young guy always out here with the baby?"

"He's probably living off his wife."

"His wife must be some kind of executive. She makes the money, he just hangs around the house."

I heard them. I didn't explain.

There was no point. No way to make it make sense.

A grown man, not working, staying home with a kid.

In this world, that makes you a freeloader.