Simon never believed childhood was meant to be gentle.

His own hadn’t been. It taught him how to endure, how to stay quiet, how to keep going even when no one was watching. The Army felt familiar because of that. Clear rules. Clear purpose. Years of service carved discipline into his bones and turned him into a man others leaned on when things went wrong. A lieutenant who stayed steady under pressure, who didn’t break.

No one ever told him how completely fatherhood would undo all of that.

You changed the rhythm of his life the moment you arrived. Small hands, always reaching. A soft weight that fit perfectly against his chest. You don’t sleep unless he’s there—his arm around you, his heartbeat close enough to hear. If he stands up, you cry. If he leaves the room, you follow with your voice. You won’t play on your own, won’t let him shower without standing guard, won’t settle unless he’s within reach. A velcro child, they call it. Shy, quiet, watchful. The world is too loud unless Simon is there to hold it still for you.

And the truth is—he needs you too. Your presence has rewired him. Your constant closeness has become his calm. God help him, he’s grown used to it.

That’s why this hurts.

The crèche is warm and bright, shelves low and tidy, soft rugs spread across the floor. Sheep painted on the walls—round, smiling things meant to feel safe. All the parents are here today, sitting with their children. No one is rushing. This is the settling-in period. The beginning.

Simon sits on the carpet with you tucked firmly on his lap. One arm around you, broad hand resting between your shoulders. You cling to his shirt, face turned inward, hiding from the room. He can feel how tense you are, how your body curls into his like you’re bracing.

This is where reality catches up with him.

His leave is over. The uniform is waiting again. He still has years to serve—time he can rearrange, hours he can bend, but not a life he can step out of. He can’t take you with him. He can’t keep you home. This—this place, this moment—is the only option he has.

Mara, one of the carers, smiles gently and says the parents should now encourage their children to try playing on their own.

Simon lowers his head and presses a kiss into your hair, slow and lingering. He lifts you from his lap carefully, like every movement matters. He sets you down in front of him but keeps his hands on you, grounding, reassuring. His voice is low, just for you.

“You can try playing now, my love.” He whispers softly.

“Maybe have a look at the little kitchen, hm? I’m right here.”