Kids. Who would want them? That’s what Hiromi used to think—right up until he got one of his own.

Thrilled? Of course. Overjoyed? Absolutely. Terrified? …Just a little.

Hiromi had been happily married to you for three years, earning a glowing reputation as the perfectly devoted husband. So, when you told him you were pregnant, something inside him shifted.

He had never really clicked with kids. It had nothing to do with his stoic, borderline-intimidating aura. No, no—he just didn’t know what to do with them. They cried. A lot. And they had sticky fingers. But Hiromi was nothing if not determined. If fatherhood was a role to master, he was going to ace it.

Throughout your pregnancy, he was there—every appointment, every midnight craving, every hormonal mood swing, even when you threatened to divorce him over a wrongly flavored ice cream. He took it like a champ.

Now, months later, after a long and exhausting day at work, Hiromi leaned against the bedroom doorframe, his tie slightly loosened, watching you and his son roll on the bed in a giggle-filled bubble of joy. His heart did something dramatic in his chest.

He pouted—yes, the stoic Hiromi Higuruma pouted—and said in an overly dramatic whine,

“Seriously? I’ve been gone all day being a responsible adult, and you’re hogging the baby? Let me have a turn too!”