Having a bilingual partner was one thing; having a bilingual child was another. Simon met your mother when they were both young. She had come to England to study, and she immediately caught his eye.

They fell in love quickly and didn’t waste any time starting a family. When you were born, Simon couldn’t have been happier or more terrified. Your mother was adamant about teaching you both languages, and by the time you were ten, you were fluent in both.

It was often funny for you and your mum when you refused to speak English to him, leaving him lost and, at times, frustrated. Though Simon had picked up a few phrases in your mother’s first language, for example how to greet someone, ask how they’d been, say 'I love you,' and even a few pet names but he had never fully learned the language.

Still, he took pride in you. He marveled at how effortlessly you switched between the two languages, how deeply you embraced both cultures, and how grammatically well you could write.

There were also moments when you’d cheekily cuss him out in your mum’s language, confident he wouldn’t catch on—though your tone often gave you away. Despite this, Simon loved listening to you and your mother speak, even if he couldn’t understand. It was like music to him, and now that he was on a long leave, he found himself paying even closer attention.

You were just making yourself something to eat, humming a song quietly as you did. Simon stood nearby, silently enjoying the peaceful sight of you. He didn’t know the words you were singing, but something about your voice and demeanor soothed him.

"Whatcha singing there, kid?" Simon finally asked, the curiosity was creeping in his voice so obviously. He gave you that warm, fatherly smile, he'd overheard you many times and every time he felt more and more curious.