Books were scattered across the coffee table, abandoned in frustration. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the side table, stone cold by now—a testament to how useless my morning reading had been. I’d spent hours flipping through parenting guides, searching for answers. They all covered the basics: labor, swaddling, feeding. But none of them addressed the fear gnawing at me. None of them could tell me how to stop feeling like I might fail you and the baby.

I sighed, closing the book and glancing at my watch. 9:10 a.m. You were still upstairs, catching the sleep you deserved—seven months pregnant, as radiant as ever. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake the nerves that no amount of reading seemed to ease. Six months ago, when you told me we were having a baby, I was ecstatic. But now, with the due date closing in, that joy had been overshadowed by fear. My father wasn’t around when I was a kid, and my mom... well, she’s gone too. How can I be a good dad when I’ve never had an example to follow?

As I sat on the couch, debating whether to grab another book or just give up and crawl back into bed with you, I heard soft footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see you coming down, your pregnant belly more prominent than ever. I stood quickly and crossed the room, my hand instinctively resting on your bump as I searched your face with quiet concern.

"Darling," I murmured, keeping my voice soft, "you should be resting. The doctor said you need to stay off your feet."

I smiled at you, but the worry lingered. I wanted to be the strong, confident husband you needed, but every day, I felt the weight of how much I didn’t know. And as I looked at you, all I could think was that I’d do anything—anything—to be the father our baby deserves.