It wasn’t just the kicking. It was what it represented. This was supposed to be his time. His reward for surviving the brutal client meetings, the awful hotel mattress, the takeout dinners in paper boxes that smelled like printer toner.
He had carved out this pocket of peace for himself. He had paid for it—literally. And now… this. A six-year-old with rocket feet and a mother who couldn’t be bothered to look up. He shifted in his seat and stole another glance back.