Upstairs, I glanced at Paisley, who was still asleep, then fell back onto my bed, loosened my tie, and closed my eyes.

I’d never been so fucking tired.

Not as a kid, when I’d lain awake in bed, worrying all night about my brother, praying for a cure, a reprieve, a miracle. Not in college, when I’d pledged a fraternity and the active members kept us up twenty-four hours a day mopping floors, collecting beer cans, and doing their fucking laundry. Not in law school, when I’d study all night for days on end before an exam, then crash for twelve hours afterward.

But it wasn’t only physical exhaustion. I was worn the fuck out mentally and emotionally too. Word of my situation had buzzed through the office fast. Everyone had been shocked, both that I had a daughter and that I was taking responsibility for her. That kind of pissed me off—did they think I would be so callous as to turn away my own child? A ton of people had burst out laughing. You? With a daughter? A few people offered congratulations and advice, but more common were things like, Oh man. Wouldn’t want to be you. Or, You know your life is over, right? A few (male) colleagues expressed sympathy, saying shit like, “Dude, bitch had no right to do that to you,” which only made me angrier. An older attorney at the firm told me, “Welcome to fatherhood, eighteen years of sleep deprivation, feeling like a failure, taking the blame, and going broke. Least you don’t have to worry about all the damage your divorce will do.”

My God, by the time I left there, I was totally demoralized. My nerve endings were beyond frayed. I felt like my life was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do to keep it together, or even keep it recognizable.

Paisley was one thing—how did fathers handle the constant pressure and doubt? Every second of the day, I was responsible for her. If anything happened, it was on me. As the days went by, I felt more confident with the routine, but Christ. When I thought ahead to eighteen years of this, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. For fuck’s sake, I’d be over FIFTY when she graduated from high school. FIFTY, worried about my teenage daughter out drinking or getting into someone’s car who had. FIFTY, waiting for her to get home after she’d broken her curfew. FIFTY, panicking about her hanging out with guys like me who’d only been interested in one thing at sixteen. Was it too early to think about sending her to a convent as soon as she hit puberty?

Fucking puberty. That was another thing. How was I supposed to handle that? What if Rachel was a total flake and never came back for her? For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even called since Saturday morning! What kind of mother could she be? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that she’d simply abandoned my child in some random hallway. She could have knocked. She could have asked me for help. She could have done any number of things that wouldn’t have put Paisley in danger. Even if she did come back, how would I know that my daughter would be safe with her?

Then there were the practical matters. If I was going to support a child, I had to work. That meant I needed a regular babysitter, in addition to finding a new place to live.

There were also legal matters. I’d filled out the Affidavit of Parentage the state of Michigan required in order to claim paternity, but I needed Rachel’s information and signature. Then we’d have to work out a custody agreement.

There would be financial matters to deal with, too—child support. Health insurance. College fund. My will and trust. And I still had to face bringing Paisley home to meet my mother next weekend.

And Emme. I’d meant everything I’d said to her last night, but I was so damn terrified. Throughout the night, whether it was Paisley keeping me up or my anxiety, I just kept thinking of all the ways I could blow it with Emme.

Like today, I could tell she’d been looking for some display of affection from me, some sign that she was more to me than just the nanny—and she was, my God, she was—but I hadn’t been able to give it to her. Even after what we’d done last night, something in me wouldn’t allow it. I’d stood there like a fucking telephone pole when she’d tried to hug me. Why was I such a dick? Was I afraid of giving her too much hope? Was I trying to lower her expectations even further? Was I too entrenched in my emotional foxhole, the one I’d dug so many years ago and refused to climb out of?

Because the crazy thing was, I’d wanted to kiss her. Hold her for a moment. Feel like myself again, the way I’d felt during sex last night. I’d wanted to pull her in close, smell her hair and her skin, so I’d have the memory of it throughout the day. I’d wanted to tell her what was wrong when she asked, wanted to admit how upset I’d been by the reactions of people at work. I’d wanted to say Yes, come back later, have dinner with me again, lie with me again, and this time, don’t leave. Let me hold you in my arms as we fall asleep. Let me breathe you in all night. And whatever you do, don’t let me push you away, because I’m going to try.

What the actual fuck was wrong with me?

I couldn’t even think. I fell asleep right there on my back, fully clothed, shoes on, feet on the floor arms outstretched, and dreamt I was being buried alive.