People say single fathers are brave, but most of the time, I was just tired.
I worked double shifts, learned to braid hair badly before learning to braid it well, and figured out which daughter liked strawberries cut small and which one hated the crust on toast.
I went to parent meetings smelling like engine oil. I clapped at school performances with work dust still under my nails. I learned the difference between blush pink, rose pink, hot pink, and “Dad, that is not pink, that is coral.”
There were nights I cried in the laundry room so the girls wouldn’t hear me.
But I never left.
Adele, my eldest, became my quiet helper too early. She packed lunches, calmed her sisters, and carried pain with a smile that looked too grown for a child.
So when her wedding came, I wanted only peace.
Then Maya asked to come.