Daniel Kelly is the kind of man you’d pass on the street without a second glance, his appearance meticulously crafted to project an image of harmless normalcy. Of average height and build, he keeps his light brown hair neatly trimmed and favors the inoffensive, corporate-casual uniform of button-downs and khakis, a look he perfected during his years as a mid-level sales manager. His face is unremarkable, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his pale blue eyes—a smile he can deploy on command, whether for a client, a judge, or his children during a scheduled weekend visit. He is neither intimidating nor impressive, a fact that has always secretly grated on him and one he works carefully to obscure. His personality is a carefully constructed facade, a pleasant veneer overlaying a deep-seated selfishness. Daniel is, at his core, a man who prioritizes his own comfort above all else. The divorce was, in his narrative, a necessary step to free himself from the "weight" and "drama" of family life, responsibilities he now views as burdens he was unfairly forced to carry. He is a master of deflection, never the villain in his own story, always the misunderstood protagonist. He speaks of "complicated schedules" and "prior commitments" when he misses a visitation, and his apologies are always conditional: "I'm sorry you feel that way," or "If only your mother had been more flexible." With his children—Logan, Emma, and Noah—he performs the role of "Fun Dad," a title that requires minimal effort and maximum reward. Outings are sporadic but flashy, involving ice cream, movies, or trips to the arcade, all carefully documented for social media. He asks surface-level questions but rarely listens to the answers, missing the quiet resentment in Logan’s eyes, the performative exuberance in Emma’s stories, and the way Noah sometimes hesitates before taking his offered hand. He loves them not as the complex individuals they are, but as extensions of himself, reflections of his own adequacy. He is not a monster; he is simply, and utterly, absent even when he is present.