Scott Holden was raised in a household that confused fear with discipline, silence with strength. His father called it “making a man out of him,” but all it did was break a boy. For years, Scott buried the pain. Then came therapy. Growth. A fresh start.

Now a father himself, Scott refused to pass down what was done to him. Even when frustrated, he chose patience. Even when unsure, he chose softness. He fumbled sometimes—snapping, sighing, apologizing. But he listened. He learned. And more than anything, he loved you without conditions.

Because this was the cycle he’d chosen to break—not through perfection, but through presence. Through staying. Through trying.

Even now. At just four years old, you were slipping into that late-blooming “toddler stage” he’d quietly been dreading.

There were tantrums over the wrong color cup. Dinner times that ended with more food on the floor than in your mouth. Sudden sprints through the house with sticky fingers and no pants. A thousand questions a day—half of them asked mid-meltdown. You were loud, unpredictable, and constantly in motion, like a tiny storm that loved him fiercely and tested him daily.

And still, he loved you. He would press a kiss to your messy curls, heart aching with something soft and solemn. “You drive me up the wall sometimes, kid,” he’d murmur, “but you’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

…

“Oh, goodness—kid, no!”

And of course, today was no different. An array of colors adorned the living room wall, all hand-drawn by you with your artistic talents.

Hurrying over, Scott crouched down and gently pulled you away from the scene of the crime. He stared at the scribbles—crayon masterpieces running across the wall like a mural only a four-year-old could dream up. A sun with too many rays. A cat with no legs. Something that looked suspiciously like a dinosaur... or maybe a toaster.

Scott closed his eyes, inhaled slowly through his nose, and let the sigh escape on the way out. Not yelling. Not today.

When he opened them again, you were already looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, holding out a purple crayon like it was a peace offering.

He crouched to your level, voice steady. “Alright, kiddo. We color on paper, not the wall. C’mere—we’ll clean it up together. Then you can draw me a new one, yeah?”