It was exactly 2:04 a.m. when our daughter, Rosie, began crying uncontrollably. Not the usual soft whimpers—this was the kind of meltdown only a major diaper disaster could cause. I’d already been up three separate times that night, aching all over and foggy from juggling a demanding work deadline. Completely drained, I nudged my husband, Cole. “Can you get this one? I’ll grab the wipes and a fresh outfit.”

He groaned, tugging the blanket over his head. “You do it,” he said groggily. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning.” I hesitated, already halfway out of bed, and added, “Cole, it’s bad. I could use some help.” That’s when he muttered it—words that stunned me more than the blowout itself: “Changing diapers isn’t a man’s job, Jess. Just deal with it.”

The sentence landed like a punch. Not just for what he said, but how casually he dismissed it, like fatherhood had business hours. Like I hadn’t been working equally hard, around the clock, with no breaks. I didn’t shout or break down. I just went to Rosie’s room, cleaned her up, and softly told her, “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.” But then I asked myself—who was there for me? That’s when I remembered the old number tucked away in a shoebox—Walter, Cole’s father, who he hadn’t spoken to in years.

After Rosie was born, I’d sent Walter a single photo out of kindness. He replied with a message I’d never deleted: “She’s beautiful. Thank you for this kindness I don’t deserve.” So I picked up the phone and dialed. At exactly 7:45 a.m. the next day, Walter arrived. He looked older, uncertain, and carried the coffee I’d offered over the phone. When Cole stumbled down the stairs, hair messy and eyes still cloudy from sleep, he froze. “Dad?”