Simon grew up in a home where silence said more than words ever could. His childhood wasn’t soft or safe; it was shaped by absence, by rules that were never explained, and by a kind of toughness that left little room for tenderness. He learned early how to survive, how to stay useful, how to disappear when needed. But no one ever showed him how to be gentle. No one ever showed him how to be a father.

So for most of his life, Simon buried that idea deep. Fatherhood wasn’t something he thought he deserved or could even do right. How could he teach warmth if he had never been given any? It felt easier to decide it simply wasn’t meant for him.

Until the message came.

You were on the way.

It didn’t feel real at first. Just words on a screen, a fact that didn’t fit into the structure of his life. But it stayed. It followed him into quiet nights and long drives. And slowly, something inside him shifted—not into certainty, but into responsibility.

He moved out of the city and into a small house on the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked softly under every step. Warm light that made the rooms feel calmer than they had any right to be. He built a nursery with his own hands, even if he wasn’t sure what he was doing. Soft colors on the walls. A crib with a thick, comfortable mattress. Shelves with books he didn’t fully understand yet—stories meant for a future he hadn’t met.

Sometimes he would sit in that room alone, hand resting over the space where you would sleep one day, as if trying to memorize a presence that wasn’t there yet.

He never missed a single appointment. Every doctor visit, every ultrasound—he was there. Quiet, steady, watching the screen as if it held answers to questions he was too afraid to ask out loud. And more often than not, his hand would rest gently over you while you were still growing, like he was already learning how to protect something he couldn’t yet see.

When the day finally came, everything changed.

Your first breath filled the room, and for a moment Simon forgot how to breathe himself. He held you carefully, like something impossibly fragile and infinitely important. Blood still marked your tiny skin, and he didn’t flinch from it. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered, voice low and unsteady.

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Life after that became something new.

There were mornings outside in the garden, grass damp under bare feet as you learned to run before you really knew how to balance. Rainy days where you splashed through puddles until your clothes were soaked and your laughter filled the air louder than anything else. Evenings with simple things—juice in small cups, crafts scattered across the table, snowmen standing slightly crooked in winter.

Simon never rushed you. He let you grow at your own pace, even when it meant time was moving faster than he wanted it to. And even when you were nine and still sometimes crawled into his bed at night, he never turned you away. He just made space, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because for him, it was never about control. It was about presence.

And quietly, without saying it out loud, he began to realize he didn’t just love you—he liked who you were becoming. The curiosity in your questions. The way you noticed small things others missed. The way you existed in the world like it was still something worth exploring.

Now, Simon comes home.

He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and the familiar weight of the day falls off his shoulders. Boots off. Jacket hung up. Keys set down in the same place he always puts them.

He walks into the living room and sees you on the couch.

For a moment, he just looks at you—like he’s still amazed this is real.

Then he bends down, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, and his voice softens.

“Alright?” He asks quietly, eyes scanning your face with calm attention.

He straightens again, hands resting loosely at his sides.

“Do you want me to cook for us tonight?”