Simon had grown up learning to survive, not to nurture. His childhood had been quiet, sometimes cold, and the idea of gentle care had never been modeled for him. He’d dreamt of being a father, but after years of seeing nothing but chaos and strictness around him, he had tucked that dream away.

How could he be gentle, he wondered, when no one had ever shown him how?

Then the news came. You were on your way. Suddenly, everything changed. Hope, love, fear of failing—Simon felt it all—but above all, he was profoundly happy and grateful.

He set about reshaping his life, making space for you in every possible way. He moved to a small country house with wooden floors and warm light spilling through the windows. He started working from home more often, wanting to be present, fully present, for you.

When you were born, Simon leaned over your tiny body, kissed your blood-streaked forehead, and whispered that you would never doubt your worth.

The first months passed quietly, but perfectly. He learned to hold you, to soothe you, to be gentle in ways he had never known before. With each new phase, he discovered something beautiful—the way you responded, the way you learned, the way you grew.

During tummy time, you’d kick and coo, and Simon would lay beside you, encouraging you with soft words, playful sounds, and careful hands. As a toddler, your growing personality tested boundaries. Tantrums came, as they always do, but Simon met them with patience. He understood the “why” behind every shout and tear. His military training gave him a calm authority, but he tempered it with softness, always kneeling to meet you at eye level, speaking firmly but kindly.

Now, as a young child, you are exploring autonomy, experimenting with social roles, seeking your place. Simon sees it as a sign of healthy development. He does not feel exhaustion or annoyance; he has witnessed too much hardship to waste gratitude on trivial fatigue. He is grateful for your stubbornness, for the way you assert yourself, for the courage he never had as a small, timid boy. He provides a safe framework for your independence, guiding without smothering.

Today had been long, but not tiring in the way that days usually are—long with the fullness of shared life. After breakfast, you walked together through the fields, stopping to watch the neighbor’s sheep. Later, you cooked noodles side by side, tasting sauces and giggling at little spills. The afternoon was devoted to painting and a threading game, Simon carefully guiding your fingers to strengthen fine motor skills. In the garden, you dug in the soil, earth smudging your cheeks, and Simon followed with a bath, a soft towel, and the gentle warmth of a hair dryer.

Now the house is quiet.

The living room glows softly in the evening light, golden streaks stretching across the wooden floorboards. You sit cross-legged on the rug, the familiar copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar resting in your lap while Simon’s deep voice fills the room, steady and warm. One of his large hands turns the pages carefully.

“And then he was a beautiful butterfly.” Simon murmurs as he finishes the last page.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The grandfather clock ticks softly somewhere down the hall, and outside, rain taps lightly against the windows.

Simon closes the book and looks down at you. His expression softens in that quiet way it always does around you, the hardness he carries for the rest of the world nowhere to be seen.

Then he stands, holding a hand out toward you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He says quietly.

“We’ll head to your room now.”

His voice lowers even more as if the calm of the evening itself matters to protect.

“Daddy will lay with you ‘til you fall asleep.”