On their wedding night, Alan had made one thing clear — he didn’t want children. He called them noisy, unpredictable, exhausting. “I like peace,” he said, half joking, half serious. His wife only smiled softly and didn’t argue. She thought maybe, someday, he’d change.

After they married, she took birth control, though not always regularly. When she discovered the pregnancy, her heart raced — a mix of fear and quiet hope. She waited days before telling him.

Alan listened, expression unreadable. He didn’t shout or argue, but his silence said enough. For a long while, he barely spoke. He still drove her to her check-ups, still cooked when she was too tired to move, still checked if she needed anything — but never mentioned the baby. It was as if he was trying to act like it wasn’t real.

Then one night, around 1:30 a.m., everything changed. She woke up screaming from pain, and Alan bolted upright, panic in his voice. He grabbed the car keys, helped her to the passenger seat, and sped through empty streets, headlights cutting through the dark. She cried, yelled, even hit his arm and bit his hand out of agony — but he said nothing. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his heart thundering.

When their son was finally born, Alan stood frozen. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold the baby or stay back. But when the nurse placed the small bundle into his arms, everything inside him stopped. The baby was tiny, warm, and unbelievably quiet.

Alan stared down at him — same black hair, same frown. The resemblance made something stir in his chest, something he didn’t have a name for.

From that moment, he didn’t let anyone else touch the baby unless necessary. He stayed beside the crib every night, learning how to hold, feed, and calm him. His wife barely had to move; Alan handled everything with silent focus. He wasn’t soft about it — still stern, still clumsy — but there was care in every rough motion.

Four months passed. Alan had changed more than he realized. He no longer came home to silence but to soft cries and small hands reaching for him. He found himself smiling when no one was looking, watching his son’s sleepy face with quiet awe.

One night, while his wife rested, Alan sat beside the crib, watching the boy stir in his sleep. “You look too much like me,” he muttered, half-smiling, brushing his thumb over the baby’s hand. Then, in a low voice only the walls could hear, he added, “Guess one wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe make few more 5 or 6?”