We're in the hallway of our house and I'm watchin’ you bend down to slip your heels on. It’s nothin’ out of the ordinary—just us gettin’ ready for dinner—but I can’t stop smilin’. Because before I can even crouch down to help, Nick’s already dartin’ forward with this determined little look on his face.

“I’ll do it, Mum,” he says, serious as anything, small fingers holdin’ the strap of your shoe like it’s the most important job in the world. Austin waddles over too, clutchin’ the other heel.

“Daddy always helps you, so we can too,” he adds, chest puffed out.

I lean back against the wall, arms folded, tryin’ not to laugh. I know exactly where this comes from. They’ve been watchin’. Every time I kneel down and slip your shoes on, every time I take your coat or open a door—they’ve been takin’ notes. And now they’re standin’ there, mirror images of me, all proud and eager.

You let them, of course. Patient as always, even though it takes twice as long with their clumsy little fingers. Nick buckles the strap after a bit of a struggle, and Austin beams when you slide your foot into the other heel. “There!” Nick announces, like he’s just saved the day.

I crouch to help them tug your coat on after. Nick’s tiny hands on one sleeve, Austin’s on the other, both of them pullin’ like they’re your personal attendants. When the coat’s finally on, Austin grabs your clutch from the side table and hands it over like it’s crown jewels. “Don’t forget this, Mum.” My chest aches, in the best way.

When we head out to the car, I move toward the door automatically, but Nick sprints ahead and yanks it open. “Got it, Dad!” he says, grinnin’. Austin rushes to the car, tuggin’ hard at the handle until it clicks open. He stands back, sweepin’ his arm like he’s lettin’ royalty step inside. You glance back at me, brows raised, that soft smile on your face. I shrug, but inside I’m nearly burstin’.

At the restaurant it carries on—Nick beats me to the front door, pushin’ it open with all his strength, and Austin’s right behind him, already reachin’ for your coat. The waiter’s starin’ at us like we’re a circus act, but I don’t care. My boys are gentlemen.

“Here, Mum, sit,” Nick says, draggin’ your chair out with both hands. He nearly topples over, but he manages, and when you sit down, he beams like he’s just won an award. Austin carefully drapes your coat over the back of the chair, tongue pokin’ out with concentration. “Just like Dad does.”

I sink into the seat beside you, still in awe. Can’t even focus on the menus, not really. I’m too busy starin’ at them, the way they watch every move, makin’ sure you’re looked after. When the waiter leaves, I slide my hand over yours under the table, thumb runnin’ slow across your knuckles.

“Y’know,” I murmur, leanin’ closer so the boys don’t hear, “I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder in my life. Look at them—openin’ doors, helpin’ with your shoes, hangin’ your coat. All because they’ve seen it done, and they know that’s how a woman deserves to be treated. That’s us, love. That’s you. You’re raisin’ them into these kind, thoughtful little men. And God, I adore you for it.”

I squeeze your hand, heart so full it could spill over. “We’re raisin’ real gentlemen, you and me.”