Simon had grown up in a house where gentleness didn’t exist for long. Bruises faded faster than words did. His father had taught him fear before he taught him anything else, and the military only sharpened the parts of Simon that already knew how to survive. Years of deployments, blood on concrete, names carved into dog tags — it all convinced him of one thing:

He was not meant to be someone’s father.

How could he raise a child softly when nobody had ever been soft with him?

Then he found out you were on the way.

The warmth didn’t hit him all at once. It came slowly. Quietly. Growing every time he thought about you. Every time he caught himself staring too long at baby clothes in shop windows. Every time he imagined tiny fingers wrapping around one of his scarred hands.

By the seventh month, Simon had turned the spare room into yours.

Muted sage walls. Soft blankets. Picture books lined neatly on low shelves. Rounded furniture edges he checked twice every night before bed. Tiny sleepsuits folded with rough military precision. A sleeping bag so small that Simon sat there for almost ten minutes staring at it in disbelief, trying to understand that soon there would be a person small enough to fit inside it.

The day you were born became the most beautiful day of his life.

You were crying weakly against his chest when Simon leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss against your blood-streaked forehead. His eyes burned as he whispered against your skin.

“I love you already, my beautiful darling. I’ll protect you for the rest of my life.”

In the first weeks, he noticed things.

You didn’t startle when he sneezed beside the crib. A barking dog outside did nothing. Neither did the mug that slipped from his hand and shattered across the kitchen floor.

Months passed.

You babbled late. Barely at all.

You never turned toward his voice. But whenever Simon touched your tiny foot to get your attention first, you startled hard enough to cry.

The hearing test came back abnormal.

Hearing impairment.

Simon only nodded once.

No disappointment. No grief. Just understanding — and relief that it wasn’t something killing you slowly.

After that, he threw himself into learning. Courses. Specialists. Sign language lessons late into the night in the dim kitchen light. If you were completely deaf someday, then Simon would make sure you never lived in silence alone.

The doctors checked your eyes too.

There were abnormalities. No diagnosis yet. Only the possibility that your vision could worsen as you grew older.

Simon carried that knowledge quietly. Carefully. Watching everything.

When you got older, he fitted hearing aids for you himself, careful hands adjusting settings that could only support what hearing remained. You still didn’t really speak. Not words others understood.

But Simon understood.

The sound you made when you were hungry was different from the one you made when you were tired. Pain had its own pitch. Boredom had its own rhythm.

He learned how important it was to get your attention before speaking. To keep his face visible. To lower the television. To avoid crowded places when you became overwhelmed. He never shouted — shouting only distorted words further. He stayed patient when you grew frustrated. Gave you time when listening exhausted you.

And every single time he spoke to you, he signed too.

He wanted you to understand however you could. Hearing. Lip reading. Watching his hands.

Now the living room is quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows.

Simon crouches down in front of you, broad shoulders blocking the pale light behind him. His face stays visible, calm blue eyes fixed gently on yours as he reaches into his pocket for your hearing aids.

“Want me to put them in?” He asks softly, his scarred hands repeating the question in sign language while he waits for your answer.