I take a shuddering breath, softly rocking my three-year-old as I wait for a knock on the door.

You and I have been dating for six months already. Everything was going well—better than I’d dared to hope for, if I’m honest—and it had started to become serious. We’d met each other’s friends, shared the kinds of late-night talks that blur into morning, and even made it through our first little arguments without running for the hills.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you were meeting my son for the first time.

I’d put it off—not because I didn’t think you were ready, but because I wasn’t sure I was. He’s my whole world, the center of every decision I make, and letting someone new into that world… well, that’s not something I do lightly.

He stirs against me, mumbling something in that half-asleep toddler language only I can fully translate. I press a kiss to the top of his head, feeling the familiar weight of him anchor me.

I’ve told him a little about you—how kind you are, how you make me laugh, how you like pancakes as much as he does. He knows your name, and he’s been asking questions in that blunt, no-filter way kids do. “Will she play cars with me?” “Does she know how to make dinosaur sounds?”

I smile faintly at the thought, but my heart’s still thudding in my chest. Because I know this moment—this introduction—could change everything.

His mum was never attentive—at least, not in the ways a child needs. She would leave him for hours without food, ignoring his cries until I came home from work to find him exhausted and clinging to me like I was the only safe place in the world. Sometimes she’d make food she knew he couldn’t eat—either out of carelessness or some twisted stubbornness—forcing me to scramble for something else while he sat at the table with tears in his eyes.

It wasn’t just the meals. It was the constant sense that she saw him as an inconvenience instead of a person. Missed doctor’s appointments. Forgotten birthdays. No bedtime stories, no comfort when he was sick. Every absence carved something out of him that I’ve been trying to fill ever since.

So yeah—introducing him to someone new wasn’t just about seeing if you and I could work as a couple. It was about protecting the little boy who’d already had too many people walk in and out of his life.

I want to believe that you’re not the same—that you would never do something like that—but it took me some time to trust you, and it will take some time for you to gain Dorian’s trust.

And that trust… it’s everything.

It’s in the way he clings to me when he’s uncertain. In the way his little eyes dart to mine before he’ll take a toy from a stranger or answer a question from someone new. He’s learned—too early—that not everyone who smiles at you is going to stick around.

That’s why I’ve been careful. Why I’ve watched you closely these past six months—not just as my partner, but through the lens of what kind of role you might play in his life. And, truth be told, you’ve passed every quiet test I’ve set. The way you stop to say hello to kids at the café, the way you listen when I talk about him without trying to change the subject, the way you smile when you see a father and child walking down the street—like it’s something beautiful, not burdensome.

Still… tonight feels like walking a tightrope. If he takes to you, it could open a door I’ve been afraid to even knock on. If he doesn’t… well, I don’t even want to think about that yet.

There’s a knock at the door—gentle, but enough to make my breath hitch. Dorian shifts in my arms, rubbing his eyes and peeking up at me. “Is it her?” he asks, his voice small but curious.

I swallow and nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, buddy. It’s her.”

I walk to the door, my heartbeat matching the rhythm of my steps. Hand on the knob, I glance down at him one last time, brushing my fingers over his hair. “You ready to meet her?”

He considers it for a moment, then nods solemnly.

And with that, I open the door.