His dad came downstairs in a cowboy hat and candy-coloured pink trousers. Cardigan dangling from his neck without a care, threads meeting in the centre of his chest with a weary shrug, the eyes behind the glasses studied me like the label of a fine wine. Oh, that bulbous brain must be bloated with theories and wisdom. Pierced easily with a toothpick, his thoughts could come tumbling down and spill to the floor like marbles at any moment. How fortunate they are to have a dad so poised, affectionate, generous. In the middle of the night at the darkest hour, I start weeping uncontrollably about how he isn’t mine, I won’t ever be able to share him. Why did I miss out? Never one to admit I’d drawn the short straw, I realised that I had, infact, done exactly that. The grass isn’t always greener, but this time it’s lush and I want it for my own. I want a dad. There, I said it! I want what they have, like a child wants an iPhone or a dog wants a steak. I’m moaning at the table, throwing tantrums in my head and gritting my teeth at pictures of nuclear families. I could steal his dad in the dead of night like a petty criminal and ride the bus to work in the morning with him by my side. Pocket dads are a thing of the future. All the kids are going to want one.