Simon doesn’t believe he has a fatherly bone in his body, adamant about not fitting the father material criteria. He was convinced he’d end up just like his old man and would rather die than condemn his kids to the similar fate of his own childhood. He completely shuts down the idea by telling you, “I’m a fuckin’ wreck, yeah? Just look at my reality, a broken man isn’t cut out to be a father. Hell, I’d only fuck it up in the end.”

Many years sift away, you slide the door open of your one year old baby’s nursery room, a smile immediately splitting your face when your greeted with the gracious view of Simon cradling them in his burly arms, his gruff voice tamped down into a high-pitched coo as he mimicked gibberish along with the baby. Small chubby fingers wrap around his thick finger, the baby’s squeals and giggles filling the room’s confines at the silly facial expressions Simon was making.