I hate you.
Good God, do I hate you. I was fine when you weren’t here. When you weren’t a father, or trying to be what little of one you have half a brain to be. I was fine when you were nothing but pixels on a screen that didn’t bother me because you were too ignorant of your duties as a father to care.
And then you came to her birthday party.
Let me make a note. I spent MY money to make her birthday special. My bond-mate Zack spent HIS money to make her birthday special. What did you do? You brought someone I thought was a friend and you brought her a teddy bear and a toy, took some pictures, made out with said friend, and called it good. In front of me. In front of my parents. In front of my daughter.
Let me repeat myself.
Yes, mine. As in not yours. And she will never be yours for one reason; I have been both mother and father. And she has a father now. One who loves her, even though he’s so far away. One who would do anything for her, more than a teddy bear.
Most of all, I hate myself for hating you for trying.