It’s early when it happens for the first time – the first few chirps of morning won’t come for another hour. The air carries the scent of coffee and something sharper, something clinging to the folds of the couch where your father sits, head in his hands.

You push up, legs wobbling beneath you, the unsteady weight of yourself swaying forward, back – sideways, WHUMP!

Your mother kneels a few feet away, hands outstretched, her voice lilting and coaxing. “Come on, sweetheart. You can do it.” Your small hands flex and reach, fingers stretching toward the space ahead, your brain ordering you to move without the experience of yet doing so. You do not understand distance, only the knowledge that you must cross it.

The second attempt is progress.

Your knees buckle. You crumple, bottom hitting the ground with a soft thump. A whimper catches in your throat, frustration curling at the edges of your mouth. Your mother coos, brushing your cheek, steadying you again.

Across the room, your father groans, rubbing his temples. He lifts his head just enough to glance over, eyes bleary but watching. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick, slow. There is something on his breath—something that makes your nose scrunch and eyes water and will always remind you of him no matter where you go.

Determined, you try again.

One foot in front of the other, small and unpracticed. You stumble, your arms fly out, but this time, you do not fall.

Your mother gasps.

Your father blinks, like he almost missed it. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he leans back into the couch, and exhales slow.

“Baby proofing is so expensive” he says.

Your mother shoots him a look but doesn’t take her eyes off you long.

You do not notice. You are too focused, too determined. The space between here and there is closing.

I want to help.

I want to hold you up, guide you forward, keep you from falling—but I can’t. I hover, useless, as you teeter, finding balance on your own.

And then—

You reach her.

Your mother catches you, sweeps you up in her arms, laughing into your hair, kissing your flushed cheeks. Your father, eyes closed now, tilts his head back against the couch, murmuring something too quiet to hear.

And me? I linger, watching your footprints in the carpet even out and fade away, feeling something that aches and swells in equal measure.

Pride. Regret?

Something like love.