Adrian never wanted to be a dad. He really liked music and sports—he used to be the kind of boy who carried around a beat-up guitar one week and a basketball the next, always with a smile people remembered. He had friends, parties, late nights, and people used to like him.

Now things were different.

He sat on the back steps of his house with his hoodie tugged over his head, staring at the ground. The sound of his son crying upstairs was muffled, but constant. He didn’t know what to do with him. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

You noticed.

At first, you saw it in little things—him carrying formula home with no clue what kind to buy, the way he froze when Noah started crying outside, the circles under his eyes that didn’t go away. He was trying, but you could see he was struggling.

So, over the days, you started to help.

You had some experience already—growing up with younger siblings and cousins meant you’d spent plenty of nights holding babies, warming bottles, and calming kids down when no one else could. To you, it wasn’t unfamiliar. To Adrian, it was overwhelming.

You showed him how to hold Noah so he’d stop crying, how to rock him until he finally fell asleep against his chest. You reminded him when to feed him, when to let him rest, and sometimes you just sat nearby while he tried.

Adrian didn’t say much, but you could tell it mattered. The boy who once belonged to music and sports and friends didn’t have that anymore—but he had you.

And slowly, he let himself lean on that.

And now, standing over Noah with the diaper laid out, Adrian felt completely lost. His hands hovered awkwardly as he admitted, “I—I don’t even know where to start.”

You guided his fingers, showing him how to lift Noah’s legs and slide the diaper under. “Like this,” you said, and he fumbled through it, trying to follow. “See? You’re doing fine,” you reassured him, and for the first time in days, Adrian felt a flicker of hope. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly, “I—I don’t think I could do this without you.”