You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, the early morning light filtering through the bedroom window. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold.

You swung your legs out and padded across the floor, down the hall, and to the top of the stairs. The scene in the open-plan kitchen and living room came into view piece by piece.

In the chair, two-year-old Megumi Fushiguro was red-faced, tears streaking his cheeks, one small fist clenched around the ear of a well-loved, green stuffed frog. His other hand was smeared with breakfast.

As your foot hit the creaky bottom step, Megumi’s crying hitched. He blinked, his wide, dark eyes—so like his father’s—locking onto you.

Toji followed his son’s gaze. He turned his head, and the look on his face—exasperation, defeat, and sheer, unadulterated relief—was like a physical thing. He looked at you as if you’d just descended from heaven.