Updated Apr 16, 2026 • ~11 min read
Chapter 13: First Visit
Matthias
Matthias arrives at Luna’s apartment at exactly six o’clock on Tuesday evening, his palms actually sweating in a way they haven’t since his first major investor pitch a decade ago, and the irony isn’t lost on him that he can present billion-dollar acquisition strategies to skeptical venture capitalists without breaking a sweat but the thought of spending one hour with his three-year-old daughter has him nervous enough to feel physically ill.
He’s holding a stuffed animal he bought this afternoon from FAO Schwarz—an enormous plush elephant that’s probably bigger than Sofia herself, imported Italian craftsmanship with embroidered details and a price tag that made even Matthias wince slightly—and he knows as he’s standing in Luna’s shabby hallway that he’s made a mistake, that this gift is too much, too expensive, exactly the kind of buying affection that Luna explicitly told him not to do.
But it’s too late to return it now because Luna is opening the door, her expression carefully neutral in a way that suggests she’s as nervous about this as he is, and Matthias forces a smile that probably looks as strained as it feels.
“Hi,” Matthias says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended. “I’m not late, am I?”
“Right on time,” Luna confirms, stepping back to let him into the small apartment, and Matthias can see Sofia hovering behind her mother’s legs, peering around at him with those grey eyes—his eyes—that still make his chest do something complicated every time he sees them.
“Sofia, this is… Mr. Wolfe,” Luna says, and Matthias can hear her struggling with what to call him, how to introduce the stranger who’s going to be spending time with Sofia twice a week for reasons the three-year-old couldn’t possibly understand. “He’s Mama’s friend. He’s going to visit and play with you for a little while, okay?”
“Hi,” Sofia says, barely above a whisper, and instead of coming forward to greet him she presses herself more firmly against Luna’s legs, her small hands fisting in her mother’s pants in that universal gesture of child-shyness that Matthias recognizes from watching his sister’s kids but has never had to navigate himself.
“Hi, Sofia,” Matthias says, trying to pitch his voice to sound friendly and non-threatening instead of like a CEO delivering a quarterly earnings report. “I brought you something.”
He offers the giant stuffed elephant, expecting—hoping—that it will break the ice, will make Sofia smile and warm up to him the way children supposedly respond to gifts—but Sofia just looks at the expensive toy with wide, uncertain eyes and doesn’t move from behind her mother.
“That’s… very generous,” Luna says carefully, and Matthias can hear the subtext in her words—*too generous, exactly what I told you not to do, you’re already messing this up*—and embarrassment floods through him because he’s been a father for approximately ten minutes and he’s already failing.
“What do you say, Sofia?” Luna prompts gently, and Matthias appreciates that she’s trying to teach her daughter manners even though the situation is awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.
“Thank you,” Sofia whispers, still not moving to actually take the elephant, and Matthias sets it down on the couch since the child clearly isn’t going to claim it.
“I’m going to be in the kitchen,” Luna tells Matthias, her voice low enough that Sofia hopefully doesn’t hear the warning underneath. “Making dinner. You two can play in the living room. Call me if you need anything.”
And then Luna is leaving, disappearing into the small kitchen that’s only partially separated from the living area by a counter, and Matthias is alone with his daughter for the first time ever with no script, no strategy, no idea what three-year-olds even like or how to talk to them or what he’s supposed to do with the next fifty-five minutes.
Sofia is still standing in the same spot, watching him with uncertain eyes, and Matthias realizes that she’s waiting for him to do something—he’s the adult, he’s supposed to know how this works, supposed to initiate play or conversation or whatever passes for interaction with toddlers.
“Do you want to play with blocks?” Matthias asks, remembering the block tower they built together last week when Luna let him visit for five minutes, hoping that familiar activity will help Sofia relax.
Sofia nods slowly and moves to the corner where her toys are organized in bins, pulling out wooden blocks with careful precision and carrying them to the coffee table—and Matthias sits on the floor across from her, feeling ridiculous in his work clothes (he came straight from the office, didn’t have time to change into something more casual), trying to figure out how to arrange his body in a way that doesn’t make him tower over this tiny person.
They build in silence for a few minutes, Sofia stacking blocks with intense concentration while Matthias tries to help without taking over, and the quiet is excruciating—Matthias is used to filling silences with business discussion or strategic planning, but what do you say to a three-year-old who barely knows you and doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly in her living room twice a week?
“You’re really good at building,” Matthias tries, and the compliment sounds forced even to his own ears.
“Thank you,” Sofia says automatically, her politeness obviously trained by Luna, but she doesn’t look up from her blocks or offer any follow-up conversation.
Matthias watches his daughter—*his daughter*, he’s still getting used to that reality—and tries to catalog everything about her, tries to memorize features and mannerisms and small details that he’s missed for three years and doesn’t want to miss anymore.
She has his eyes, that much is obvious, but her face shape is Luna’s, and her hair is some combination of both of them, dark curls that could belong to either parent. She’s small for three, or at least Matthias assumes she is since he has no frame of reference for normal child sizes, and she’s incredibly focused when she works on tasks, sticking her tongue out slightly when she’s concentrating just like Matthias does when he’s reviewing complex contracts.
The realization that she has his mannerisms, his genetic tells, makes something warm bloom in Matthias’s chest—this is his child, this little person who’s building block towers with such determination, this human being who wouldn’t exist if not for one perfect night four years ago.
“What are you building?” Matthias asks, trying to engage Sofia in conversation again.
“A castle,” Sofia says, adding another block to her increasingly precarious structure. “For the princess.”
“Who’s the princess?” Matthias presses, hoping that children like to talk about imaginary play.
Sofia looks at him like he’s asked the stupidest question in the world. “Me. I’m the princess.”
“Of course,” Matthias says, feeling foolish. “Every princess needs a good castle.”
They continue building, and Matthias tries several more conversational gambits—asking about daycare (Sofia gives one-word answers), asking about her favorite food (cheese), asking if she likes her stuffed elephant (a small shrug that could mean anything)—and with each failed attempt at connection, Matthias feels his confidence draining away, replaced by the sinking certainty that he has no idea how to do this, no instinct for fatherhood, no ability to connect with this small person who shares his DNA but might as well be a stranger.
The hour crawls by with painful slowness, Matthias hyperaware of every awkward silence and failed conversation attempt, and by the time Luna emerges from the kitchen to announce that it’s seven o’clock and time for Sofia’s dinner, Matthias has never been more grateful for a meeting to end.
“Say goodbye to Mr. Wolfe, Sofia,” Luna prompts, and Sofia gives him a small wave from across the room, not coming closer for a hug or showing any sign that she’s sad about him leaving.
“Goodbye, Sofia,” Matthias manages, standing up and trying to ignore the way his knees crack from sitting on the floor for an hour. “I’ll see you Thursday, okay?”
Sofia nods but doesn’t respond verbally, already moving toward the kitchen where Luna is setting out dinner plates, apparently unconcerned about the man who’s about to leave her apartment.
Luna walks Matthias to the door, and the pity in her eyes when she looks at him is somehow worse than if she’d been angry or critical.
“It takes time,” Luna says quietly. “She’s shy with new people. She’ll warm up.”
“She hates me,” Matthias says, and he can hear the devastation in his own voice, the crushing disappointment of someone who built up expectations that reality thoroughly destroyed.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Luna corrects gently. “She doesn’t know you. There’s a difference.”
But it doesn’t feel like a difference to Matthias as he walks back down the stairs to his car, the failed visit replaying in his mind on an endless loop of everything he said wrong and every moment where Sofia looked at him like he was an unwelcome intruder in her home.
He thought fatherhood would be instinctive, thought his love for Sofia would somehow translate into natural parenting ability—but the reality is that he has no idea what he’s doing, no framework for how to talk to a three-year-old, no experience that prepares him for the unique challenge of building a relationship with a child who has no reason to trust him or want him around.
Matthias sits in his car for a long time before starting the engine, replaying the hour in his head and trying to figure out where he went wrong—the stuffed elephant was too much, he shouldn’t have brought such an expensive gift; his attempts at conversation were stilted and unnatural, probably obvious even to a toddler; he should have researched more, should have asked Luna what Sofia likes instead of just showing up and hoping instinct would carry him through.
He texts Luna when he gets home, unable to stop himself from seeking reassurance even though he knows he probably shouldn’t:
*Matthias: I’m sorry about the elephant. I know you said not to bring expensive gifts. I just wanted her to like me and I don’t know what I’m doing.*
The response comes back faster than he expected:
*Luna: It’s okay. You’re trying. That matters. Sofia will come around.*
*Matthias: What if she doesn’t? What if I’m just not good at this?*
There’s a longer pause before Luna’s next message:
*Luna: Then you practice. You show up consistently. You be patient. Being a parent isn’t about being naturally good at it, it’s about being willing to keep trying even when it’s hard.*
The words should be comforting, but instead they just remind Matthias of how much he doesn’t know, how far behind he is in this parenting journey that Luna has been navigating alone for three years—she knows how to talk to Sofia, knows what makes her laugh and what scares her and how to comfort her when she’s upset, and Matthias is starting from zero with no map and no guidebook and no idea if he’ll ever catch up.
He spends the rest of the evening Googling “how to talk to toddlers” and “building relationship with preschooler” and reading parenting blogs that make him feel simultaneously better and worse—better because apparently struggling to connect with your child is normal, worse because most of the advice is geared toward parents who’ve been involved since birth, not ones trying to establish fatherhood at age three.
By the time Matthias goes to bed, he’s made a mental list of things to do differently for Thursday’s visit—no expensive gifts, just his presence; ask Luna beforehand what Sofia’s current interests are; bring an activity they can do together instead of hoping Sofia will initiate play; be prepared for awkwardness and don’t take it personally when his daughter doesn’t immediately warm up to him.
But beneath the practical planning, there’s a current of grief that Matthias can’t quite shake—grief for the three years he missed when bonding would have been easier, when Sofia wouldn’t have had the cognitive awareness to question why this stranger was suddenly in her life, when he could have been “Daddy” from the beginning instead of “Mr. Wolfe, Mama’s friend” who shows up twice a week for supervised visitation.
He has to earn the title of father.
Has to prove he deserves it through consistency and presence and patience.
Has to accept that love isn’t enough—you have to show up, repeatedly, even when it’s awkward and uncomfortable and you feel like you’re failing with every forced conversation attempt.
Thursday at six o’clock, he’ll try again.
And he’ll keep trying, keep showing up, keep learning how to be the father Sofia deserves even if it takes months or years for her to see him that way.
Because she’s his daughter.
And Matthias doesn’t give up on things that matter.
Even when—especially when—they’re hard.
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