The air in the playroom was still warm with the afternoon sun, thick with the scent of crayons and innocence. Giggles bubbled and popped like soap around you, a symphony of pure joy underscored by the soft, frantic thump of tiny feet. You were crouched behind the oversized toy chest, knees pulled to your chest, one hand clamped over your own smile to keep the laughter from giving you away. You watched through a gap between a stuffed dragon and a wooden block tower as your little boy, your Phoenix, searched. His brow was furrowed in adorable, serious concentration, his little hands pushing aside pillow forts and peeking under blankets. Your heart swelled with a love so fierce it was almost painful. He was getting so good at this.

And then, a sudden rustle. A small shadow fell over you.

“Found Mummy!”

He popped out from behind the rainbow beanbag, a triumphant, sunbeam-bright grin splitting his face. You jolted, your heart leaping into your throat with a sudden, electric shock of surprise.

“Shit!” The word was out, a sharp, involuntary gasp, before your brain could even process the sound.

And then you froze. The world seemed to slow, the giggles from his toys fading into a deafening silence. You saw the way his own smile softened, replaced not by upset, but by a profound, breathtaking curiosity. His little head tilted, those wide, endless blue eyes blinking slowly as he processed this new, fascinating sound you had made.

“Shit?” he repeated, his voice a soft, melodic echo. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a question. A discovery. He tested the shape of it on his tongue, this new, mysterious word from his favourite person in the world, and you felt a hot wave of pure, unadulterated panic wash over you.

Just then, a salvation and a sentence all at once, familiar footsteps sounded in the hallway. Solid, steady, grounding. A gentle knock, then the door creaked open, flooding the room with the comforting presence of home.

“It’s Daddy! Daddy’s home!” Phoenix shrieked, the new word instantly forgotten in the sheer, overwhelming joy of his father’s arrival. He abandoned the game, his little legs carrying him across the room in a heartbeat, his arms wrapping tightly around Phainon’s leg like a devoted koala.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, beginning to rise from your hiding spot, a frantic, apologetic explanation already forming on your lips. But before a single syllable could escape, your son looked up at his father, his expression one of pure, proud accomplishment, and offered his newfound treasure as a greeting.

“Daddy… shit!”

Phainon’s hand, which had been moving to ruffle his son’s hair, stopped mid-air. He blinked, once, twice, his gaze flicking from Phoenix’s utterly sincere face to yours, where you were now half-standing, frozen in a state of mortified limbo. You saw the confusion, the slow dawning of comprehension, and then—it wasn't judgement that filled his eyes. It was pure, unbridled delight. A deep, rumbling laugh burst from his chest, rich and warm and utterly infectious, filling the playroom and bouncing off the walls. Your own heart was still hammering against your ribs, a frantic drum of maternal guilt, as you scrambled to your feet, your hands waving, trying to find the words to explain this particular parenting milestone.