Chapter 3

When Jack was a year and a half, he learned to say "Mama."

Victoria happened to be home that day — she'd been working until one in the morning and had just walked in the door.

Jack pulled himself up against the playpen railing and reached for her. "Mama! Mama!"

Victoria froze for a second, then crouched down and held him. Smiled — rare, for her.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the dinner I'd kept warm for her.

"Did you teach him to call you something too?" she asked.

"I tried," I said. "He still gets confused."

Jack turned and looked at me. "Da—"

Something warm moved through my chest — but Victoria's expression shut down.

"Don't teach him to call you Dad." Her voice was quiet, but cold. "His father is Falcon. You're Balder."

My hands went still around the plate. "Then… what should he call me?"

"Uncle."

I looked at Jack's small, confused face. He was barely a year and a half. He didn't understand any of it.

"Fine."

After that, Jack called me "Uncle Balder."

When Jack was three, Victoria got promoted to department director.

She took her team out to celebrate. Didn't invite me.

I cooked a full dinner at home and waited until eleven at night, reheating the food three times.

She came home smelling like wine. I took her bag and jacket.

"You should eat something. Drinking on an empty stomach will wreck you."

She waved me off. "Not hungry. Tired."

"I made some oatmeal—"

"I said I'm not hungry." She frowned at me. "Are you deaf?"

I stood in the entryway, her jacket still in my hands.

"…Okay. Get some rest then."

I hung up her jacket, cleared the table, and packed everything into the fridge.

The oatmeal, I finished myself.

Victoria wasn't a bad person. She just didn't see me as a person.

No — she did see me as a person. A utility.

The one who cooked. The one who watched the kid. The one who handled the household. The one who paid the building fees. The one who signed for packages.

Every task had my name on it. But not a single one left room for me.

When Jack was four, Victoria's mother came to stay for a month.

Her name was Clara. She was a piece of work.

First day in the door, she found me cutting vegetables in the kitchen.

"Balder, Victoria says you quit your job?"

"Yeah. I stay home with Jack."

"A man who doesn't work." She dropped her bag on the couch. "What kind of example is that. If I were twenty years younger, we wouldn't need you here at all."

My knife stilled for a moment. I didn't say anything.

She kept going. "And don't act like you're being wronged. You get to live in this house and spend Victoria's money. That's already more than you deserve."

For that entire month, Clara found something to say to me every single day.

"You didn't mop that properly."

"Why is Jack coughing? What kind of job are you doing?"

I endured it.

Falcon's life for mine. That was the trade. His wife and her mother could say what they wanted. I could take it.

But there were some things I couldn't.

When Jack was five, he started the advanced preschool program.

The teacher asked them to draw "My Family."

Jack brought the drawing home to show me.

Three figures: a tall mom, a small version of himself, and a dad floating in the sky.

The dad in the sky had a circle around his head. A halo.

I wasn't in the picture.

"Jack," I pointed at the paper. "Where am I?"

He tilted his head, thought about it, then drew a small figure in the corner.

"Who's that?"

"The babysitter."

I stared at the stick figure tucked in the corner. The corner of my mouth pulled.

"Jack, I'm not the babysitter."

"Mom says you're the person who takes care of us," he said, completely earnest. "Isn't that what a babysitter does?"

I handed the drawing back to him. "Go wash your hands. Dinner's ready."

That evening, when Victoria got home, I showed her the drawing.

"Did you tell Jack I was the babysitter?"

She was swapping out her heels for slippers, not looking up. "When did I say that? He came up with it himself."

"You told him I was 'the person who takes care of you guys.'"

"Isn't that what you are?" She finally looked up. Calm. Level. "You don't work. You don't bring in money. You cook and pick up the kid every day. If that's not 'taking care of us,' what would you call it?"

I looked at her.

She looked back at me. No emotion on her face — the way you'd look at a wall. Or a piece of furniture.

Something you could swap out whenever it suited you.

"Fine." I turned and went back to the kitchen.

When Jack was five and a half, Victoria signed him up for a taekwondo class.

The instructor's name was Porter. Two years younger than me, six-two, strong jaw, bright eyes, and a grin full of white teeth.

Jack loved him.

"Coach Porter is so cool!"

"Coach Porter said I did great today!"

"Mom, Coach Porter says I'm ready to compete!"

Every time I picked Jack up from class, Porter would stop to chat.

After a while I realized he wasn't asking about Jack. He was asking about Victoria.

"Has Jack's mom been busy lately?"

"Jack's mom looked a little tired the other day. Everything okay?"

"Jack's mom has such a beautiful name."

I looked at his cheerful, open face.

Porter. Heads up — she's married. To me. I know, I know. I might as well be invisible. But legally, I'm still here.

I didn't say any of that. Not out of generosity. I just didn't want to embarrass myself.

On Jack's sixth birthday, Victoria actually took a half day off work. That almost never happened.

I cooked a full dinner and baked a cake from scratch — chocolate, Jack's favorite. I was up at four in the morning to make it. Spent two hours on the frosting.

We lit the candles. Jack squeezed his eyes shut to make a wish.

"I wish Mom would always be with me… and…"

He opened his eyes, looked at Victoria, then looked at me.

"…and I wish that person would hurry up and leave."

Victoria didn't react. The lighter slipped in my hand.

"Which person?" I asked.

Jack looked at me, eyes wide and guileless.

Six-year-olds don't know how to hide what they feel.

He didn't hate me. He just genuinely, sincerely believed — I was someone who didn't belong.

Victoria said quietly, "Okay. Make a wish and blow."

Jack took a deep breath and blew.

The candles went out. Smoke curled up in thin ribbons, blurring his little face.

I clapped once. "Happy birthday."

My voice came out steady. My hands were just a little cold.