Simon never returned to work after you were born.

The decision was instant. The uniform was put away without regret, because the moment he held you, his life found its center. Years of military structure didn’t disappear—they softened, became patience and consistency, tools he now used for you.

From early on, you moved through the world differently. You didn’t speak, only made small sounds now and then. When Simon said your name, you didn’t turn. Your eyes rarely met his, and he learned not to demand what felt unnatural to you. Love didn’t need eye contact. It just needed presence.

You didn’t point, didn’t wave, didn’t invite him into play. When something inside you hurt or overwhelmed you and you couldn’t explain it, your body answered instead—crying, screaming, tension shaking through you. Simon learned to recognize the signs before it peaked. He stayed calm, lowered his voice, slowed the world down when yours became too loud.

You spent long stretches absorbed in your own space, playing alone. Other children didn’t interest you. You sorted, stacked, spun objects with careful precision. A toy car wasn’t something to drive, but something to turn over and over. Repetition soothed you. Simon never rushed you out of it.

Your body sought regulation in movement—hand-flapping, rocking, spinning, walking on your toes. Changes were hard. A different shirt, unfamiliar food, a small shift in routine could trigger overwhelming reactions. Sounds were especially dangerous; sudden noise could send you into panic. Some textures were unbearable, certain touches impossible. Other things—pain, cold—barely reached you at all.

Daily care took time. Hair washing, brushing teeth, cutting nails required preparation and trust. Sleep came poorly. Food choices were few and fixed. Meltdowns happened often—not tantrums, but overload, your system pushed too far. Sometimes you hurt yourself, biting or hitting your head, and Simon stayed close every time. Hands steady. Voice low. Never angry.

Autism. High support needs.

Simon never wished it away. It was part of you. Loving you meant accepting all of it, even on the days when watching you struggle hurt more than he could put into words. Staying home didn’t exhaust him—it grounded him. The quiet focus suited him. He was exactly where he needed to be.

Now Simon moves softly into your room. A string of small lights casts a warm, familiar glow. He pauses, making sure his presence doesn’t overwhelm you.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Good morning, baby.” Simon murmurs gently.

“Are you awake yet?”