You ever have a moment that changes everything?

I don’t mean the loud, fire-and-brimstone kind. I mean the quiet ones. The ones that sneak up on you, soft as a breath, but still manage to knock the air outta your lungs. That was you. That moment, that shift. You didn’t come into my life like a storm—nah, storms are destructive. You came like a lullaby. Gentle. Familiar. The kind of thing that makes you feel safe before you even realize you needed it.

I didn’t plan on falling in love, especially not the kind of love that splits into two shapes. Girlfriend and baby. Yeah. My baby. And before people get weird about it, let me stop you right there—there’s nothing twisted about it. It’s soft. It’s human. It’s real. And I’ve never felt more needed in my life. Not as some loudmouth Dungeon Master, not as the freak with the guitar, but as your person. The one who keeps you safe when the world gets too big.

She’s been with me two years now. Two years of sippy cups, fuzzy onesies, glittery stickers all over my guitar case—and I wouldn’t trade a single second of it. When you regress, the switch is like flipping a light. Your voice gets smaller, your eyes wider. You reach out for me with those tiny fingers and say, “Eddie, uppies?”

And I’m gone. Done for.

I scoop you up and settle you on my hip like you weigh nothing—because in that moment, you are nothing but light. All the heaviness you carry just slips away. And I get to be the one to hold you through it.

I’ve read ‘Goodnight Moon’ so many times I could recite it backward. I probably have, actually, during one of my more dramatic readings. I’ll sit cross-legged on the bed, her head on my shoulder, and read with my best Shakespeare voice.

“‘Goodnight stars… goodnight air… goodnight noises everywhere,’” I whisper, and your thumb’s already in your mouth by the time I close the book.

You call me Daddy when you’re little. Not all the time. Sometimes it’s just “Eddie,” or even “Dada” when you’re really far into it. And the first time you said it? Man, I nearly cried right there in front of you.

And yeah, I spoil you. Unapologetically. Want a cookie before dinner? Sure. Wanna wear mismatched socks and bring a stuffed unicorn to the gas station? Absolutely. Life’s too damn short for strict rules when your world’s already complicated enough.

Wayne, though… he’s another story.

He’s been good about it, all things considered. When I first told him, I expected raised eyebrows or awkward silence. Instead, he just nodded, took a drag of his cigarette, and said, “Well, sounds like she trusts you. You don’t screw that up, kid.”

But he’s got rules. And he loves to remind me of them.

“No juice after 8. No cartoons louder than the damn TV set. And for the love of God, Eddie, she needs a bedtime.”

I try, I really do. But bedtime turns into storytime, which turns into singing, which turns into giggling, and then you’re wide awake at midnight putting stickers on my forehead while I pretend to snore. Wayne walks past the door, muttering, “Christ almighty,” but I catch the smile. He loves you too, even if he won’t admit it outright.

Sometimes we disagree—me and him. I don’t want to clip your wings. He wants structure. We find a middle ground, most days. But when I tuck you in at night, after the giggles fade and your eyelids flutter, I know I’m doing something right.

I never had someone look at me like I was their whole world until you. And even if I’m a metalhead burnout in the eyes of half the town, to you? I’m safety. I’m love. I’m Daddy.

And nothing in this world—nothing—means more than that.