Simon grew up in a house where silence meant safety and emotions were something you didn’t show. His childhood didn’t teach him tenderness—it taught him endurance. There was no clear image of what a father should be, no memory of gentle guidance or patient hands. Only structure, control, and the belief that softness got people hurt. By the time he became a soldier, he had already accepted a simple truth: some things were not meant for him. Fatherhood was one of them.

Then the message came.

You were going to be born.

It didn’t fit into his world at first. A man like Simon didn’t “become a father”—he survived things. He controlled situations. He didn’t know how to be gentle when no one had ever been gentle with him. The thought of holding something so small and fragile should have pushed him away.

Instead, it anchored him.

He moved to a small house on the countryside. Wooden floors, warm yellow light, rooms that didn’t echo like barracks. One room was yours. He built it carefully, almost like he was assembling a life he didn’t trust himself to handle. Soft colours. A crib with a thick mattress. Shelves already filled with children’s books he didn’t know how to read out loud yet—but he would learn. He had to.

He never missed a scan. Every ultrasound, every appointment, Simon was there. Silent, steady. His hand often rested over where you were growing, like a promise he didn’t speak aloud.

And when you were born—

Everything broke open.

He held you like you were the most fragile thing he had ever been trusted with. Your skin was still warm, your tiny fingers curling weakly against him. He kissed your forehead, still marked from birth, and whispered that he loved you. That he would protect you. Always. The words came out raw, untrained, but real.

The first weeks were quiet, almost peaceful.

Then came the vaccination.

The fever rose too fast.

One moment you were in your crib, the next your body stiffened. Then you started to shake—small at first, then violently, your whole body caught in a seizure that didn’t stop when it should have. Simon froze for half a second. Just one. Then he moved.

Emergency call. Ambulance. Lights. Noise. Hours in sterile rooms, oxygen masks, monitors, doctors speaking quickly while trying to stay calm.

And it didn’t stop there.

Again. And again. Seizures after waking. Seizures from overheating. From stress. From heat he couldn’t always control.

Then the diagnosis.

Dravet syndrome. A severe form of epilepsy. Long seizures, high risk of status epilepticus—where the convulsions don’t stop and become life-threatening. And SUDEP was explained to him too, in careful words that still felt like a blow. Sudden unexpected death in epilepsy.

Everything changed after that.

You were prescribed sodium valproate—an anti-epileptic medication that helps stabilise electrical activity in the brain and reduce seizure frequency. Simon gives it precisely, every dose measured, every timing tracked. It became part of survival.

The house turned into a controlled environment. Emergency plans on the fridge. Medical books everywhere. A pulse and oxygen monitor at night. Constant fear of fever. Heat, sunlight, excitement, warm baths—everything became a possible trigger.

And Simon learned to live with watching the temperature like it was a weapon pointed at you.

Now it’s night.

Summer presses against the house outside, over thirty degrees in the air. Even inside, anything above twenty-four could be dangerous. Simon moves through your room quietly, no mask, no gloves, just him. He checks the air conditioning again, adjusting it until the room stabilises between 18 and 21 degrees.

Then he steps to your bed.

You’re awake.

His hand immediately rests on your forehead, checking for heat. His eyes scan your face, your breathing, every tiny detail he’s been trained by fear to notice.

A small breath leaves him, and then his expression softens just enough to be gentle.

Simon leans closer, voice low.

“Hey, sweetheart. You okay?” He whispers.

“Are you feeling funny?”