Simon never thought fatherhood would feel like walking through a minefield. It hadn’t always been just the two of you. Mara had been there once — unstable, unpredictable. He still remembered the fights, her voice breaking into screams, the thud of her fists against the walls, the sound of glass shattering. You had been watching, small eyes wide open, taking in every second. And when Mara wept or lashed out, Simon had been too late, too absent, working himself to exhaustion and leaving you alone with her storms.

Now, those storms lived inside you. He had seen them tear out of you in ways that shook him: the way you screamed if someone’s hand brushed your face, the terror that turned into rage. He knew why. Mara pressing that pillow down, smothering you in her despair — the memory stuck in your body like a trap ready to snap. He couldn’t forget the look on your face the first time he reached for your cheek and you shattered into screams.

It hadn’t stopped there. Schools had called, clinics had filled your days, group homes had tried to contain you. Simon had been forced to dial your social workers more times than he wanted to admit. Reports of you attacking other kids, throwing stones at animals until they scattered in terror. Each time, he had stood there, jaw tight, listening to the accusations while reminding himself: it isn’t your fault. He carried that line like armor, even when you struck him, even when you spit words meant to wound.

Sometimes his patience broke. He’d slam a door, bark your name in frustration. But he never let it go further. Never let you see disgust in his eyes. He knew too well what rejection would do to you.

The house tonight was quiet, but he could feel your tension like static in the air. He leaned in the doorway of the small bathroom, arms crossed over his chest. He took in the scene, let out a slow breath.

His face softened. No mask, no armor now. Just your father, tired but still here.

“Alright, baby.” He said quietly.

“Brush your teeth.”