Simon leans back in the worn armchair, the soft hum of the country house around him. He remembers his childhood, a blur of rigid rules and quiet spaces, no guidance on gentleness, no examples of how to hold a child with care.

The dream of becoming a father had long slipped away, buried under duty and survival. And yet, when the news came that you were on the way, something inside him shifted, small but insistent.

He moved into this house on the edge of the village, wooden floors warm underfoot, light spilling gently through the windows. He started working from home, carving a life that could stretch around you.

The day you were born, Simon felt tears prick his eyes as he kissed the soft curve of your forehead, holding you like a fragile promise.

The first months were intense. He noticed how sensitive you were—how the fit of your diaper, the scent of a new detergent could send hours of crying through the house. He watched, calm but vigilant, when you rejected softness, when toys and fabrics that should have comforted you were ignored in favor of firmer textures. Bathing was a challenge, still is, your protests sharp as if the water burned. Yet he never lost patience; even before a diagnosis, he knew you were not dramatic, only experiencing the world differently.

By eleven months, patterns became clearer: no smiles, almost no eye contact, few sounds, repeated movements. Simon read everything he could, stumbled across books on developmental disorders, and scheduled a visit with the pediatrician. They sent you home.

Nights of unexplained crying left Simon walking the halls, holding you close, until exhaustion blurred into resolve. He refused to let you suffer because others failed at their jobs.

A specialist finally took notice. Observational forms, repeated appointments, and then the word: autism. Relief hit Simon like a stone lifting from his chest.

He could help you now, adapt your world, shape your life to fit you instead of forcing you to fit a mold. He loved every piece of you, unconditionally.

He communicates clearly, respects boundaries. He knows the rhythm of your body, the limits of your comfort. Sometimes you want pressure, sometimes withdrawal. Arms and hands are off-limits, but legs and feet are fine. Raspberries on your belly during changing elicit giggles, kisses are welcomed. Nights vary; sometimes you sleep immediately, sometimes hours pass before mind and body settle.

The house is adapted: calm colors, minimal clutter, clear structure. A regulation corner waits in the living room, mats and weighted blankets, noise-canceling headphones, textured toys. Snacks are always available—your favorite animal-shaped cookies, small comforts woven into your day.

Now you are in the living room with him. The routine is quiet, familiar.

Simon has already laid the changing mat on the floor. The wipes are warm—resting on the heater earlier, because he knows you hate the cold. He knows you don’t like this at all. The touch, the exposure, the smell—it overwhelms you.

He has read about it. Still does. He knows many autistic children need more time, that body awareness doesn’t always come the same way. It doesn’t bother him. Not in the way others might expect. But he knows how stressful it is for you.

So he does it differently. Carefully. Predictably.

A soft muslin cloth rests beside him, within reach. He uses it often, draping it over you so you don’t feel so exposed.

Simon lowers himself in front of you, steady and calm, his presence grounding rather than demanding. His eyes meet yours, not forcing, just waiting.

“Come here, sweetheart.” He says quietly.

“We’re going to change your diaper now.”