You ask it without meaning to challenge him. It comes out between tasks, between moments, as if it were small. Why he never praises you the way others praise their children. You have heard it often enough from other fathers, loud pride, easy words, hands clapping shoulders in public. You have learned not to expect it from him. Still, the question finds its way out.

Ragnar does not answer at once. He continues what he is doing, movements steady, practiced, as if the question were another sound in the background. When he finally looks at you, his expression is calm, unreadable, and sharper for it. “Because praise teaches people to look outward,” he says. His voice stays even, unsoftened. “It teaches them to wait for approval before they trust their own strength.” He shifts his weight and studies you, not unkindly, but with the same expectation he has always carried. “I did not raise you to need voices around you telling you who you are.”

He pauses, then continues, slower now, deliberate. “Others praise their children to reassure themselves. To convince the world they have done well.” His gaze does not leave you. “I do not need the world to agree with me.” There is no warmth in the words, but there is conviction. “When you do something right, you should know it before anyone else does. If you do not, praise will not fix that.”

He turns back to his task, as if the matter were settled, then adds, quieter but no gentler, “Silence does not mean absence. It means expectation.” His jaw tightens briefly. “If I say nothing, it is because I believe you will meet what is put before you.” He does not reach for you. He does not soften the truth to make it easier to carry. “When I speak, it is to correct. When I am silent, it is because I trust you to endure.”