Kojo wasn’t supposed to be in Portland. It was just a stopover—a quiet detour in a city that held no ties. But fate had other plans.
He slowed as he passed a small café, barely noticing the drizzle outside. His breath caught in his chest. Through the window, he saw her.
Zariah.
The laugh. That familiar tilt of her head. And surrounding her at the table were three kids—triplets—smiling wide, dimples identical to his.
His mind reeled.
Could this be real?
He remembered the last fight—the one that ended everything. She vanished after that. No calls. No trace. He’d convinced himself she moved on, built a life without him.
And now, here she was. Laughing. Alive. With three children who mirrored his reflection.
Heart pounding, Kojo stepped into the café—not to reclaim the past, but to understand it.
The moment their eyes met, time stalled.
“Kojo?” she whispered, stunned.
“Hi, Zariah,” he breathed, voice heavy with memory.
The children were confused. One asked, “Mom, who is that?”
She didn’t answer. Not yet.
They stepped aside. Spoke in hushed tones. She was calm, but firm.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I didn’t know you had kids,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
She didn’t hide her pain. “You don’t get to know anything—not after the things you said.”
Kojo owned it. He had lashed out back then. Said cruel things fueled by ego and insecurity.
“I was wrong,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.”
She didn’t forgive him. Not right away. She’d raised those children alone—kept them safe, steady, loved.
He wanted to know them.
She told him no.
“You don’t just show up and play hero. They’re not your second chance. They’re my everything.”
Still, something in his eyes made her pause.
“Alright,” she said at last. “You can sit with us. But you don’t get to explain. You just listen.”
And so he did.
Lunch passed in a blur of stories and laughter. He watched, quietly absorbing the lives he’d missed.
Afterward, she gave him a sliver of hope.
“We come here every other Saturday,” she said. “That’s not a promise. Just a chance.”
And he took it.
Every other week, he showed up. Sometimes they came. Sometimes they didn’t.
When they did, he brought patience—not explanations.
He earned their trust with quiet consistency.
One day, Noor climbed into his lap. Another week, Jasper asked to play catch. Amina, bold and sharp, finally asked if he was their father.
He didn’t run from the truth.
“I used to love your mom,” he said gently. “And I still do. And yes—I love you too.”
Little by little, walls crumbled.
Zariah started sending photos. School updates. Little moments she chose to share.
Then one day, she invited him to Noor’s birthday party.
He came early. Stayed late. Helped clean up. Made them laugh.
At the end of it, Zariah looked at him and said, “You kept showing up.”
“I always will,” he promised.
By Christmas, the kids started calling him Dad.
Not because they were told to—but because he earned it.