Damien loathed bologna sandwiches. The meat never tasted right to begin with and it always left a lingering film on the roof of his mouth. He chucked the ziploc bag in the garbage and slumped into the chair next to Lane.

“Bologna again?” Lane asked as he scooped the cheesiest bite of macaroni into his mouth.

“Yeah.” Damien said through his teeth. “Why can’t he make me real food for lunch?”

It was dad’s fault. He always rushed things in the morning, and that meant lunches that were bland and simple.

“Maybe he’s just not good at that kind of thing,” Lane said. “Or he doesn’t know what you like.” Another bite of Mac and cheese.

Not that Dad would care to know, Damien thought. He’s always off doing something with his friends or working on some project for work. Whenever we end up in the same room for more than 30 seconds, it gets really awkward.

“I think he hates me.” Lane stopped eating and looked at Damien.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“He can’t hate you.”

“And why not?”

“It’s against the rules or something. He’s you’re dad. That means he has to love you.”

Maybe Lane was right. Maybe avoiding eye contact and making crappy lunches added up to something more. But all it said to Damien was he wasn’t important enough to warrant any attention outside the usual eat, sleep, school cycle.

I’m an ugly puppy to him, Damien thought. He gives me cheap bowls of fake meat and pawns me off on everyone else because he’s “too busy” or “overwhelmed.” Maybe he doesn’t hate me.

He just doesn’t care.

…

Damien woke up, his back damp with sweat. The room was dark, which meant it wasn’t morning yet. But a faint blue outline around the window meant it would be soon. He glanced at the shape beside him: Ellie. She was lying on her back with the covers pulled up to her chin, her large belly protruding upwards. “Our baby,” he thought.

He gently slipped out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen. He flipped a light on and got himself a cup of water. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d dreamed about middle school last night - about his friend Lane, and the bologna sandwich. About his father.

“I’ll be a father soon,” he whispered. He winced as he felt his chest tighten. “And I’ll screw it up, just like him.”

“No one says you have to,” said a voice.

Damien turned his head to see Ellie standing in the doorway. She cradled her belly as she walked over and snuggled into his side. “In fact, I say you show him what it means to be a real father.”

“You think so?” Damien chuckled and kissed her head. “I sure hope I do. I never want our baby to question how much I love her.”

“It’s a girl now, huh?” Ellie smiled.

“Better a mini-you than a mini-me,” Damien said.

“Please, no! Do you have any idea how frightening I was as a child? You really want a tangled mane of red hair running around nipping at your ankles?” Ellie saw him smile, and she stroked his cheek with her hand. “I’d much rather have a gentle, loving boy with those beautiful eyes.” She kissed him. “You are more than he ever was, Damien.”

Something in her eyes stole his fears away. Nothing else in the world could do that.

“Come on then,” she said, holding his hand and backing towards the stairs. And he followed her to bed and fell asleep once more.

The nightmare had ended, and something new took its place.