Leah’s got that proper sleepy wobble on, tiny fists rubbing her eyes like she’s trying to scrub the day off her face. Rome is loud around us, scooters whining past, tourists everywhere, the smell of espresso drifting out of doorways. We’ve just come from the market and a long lunch, and now it’s the walk back to the car park in that warm, late-afternoon glare.

I keep you on my left, away from the traffic, like I always do in busy places. Not some macho thing. Just how I’m built. Mum drilled manners into me, and it stuck: hold the door, carry the bags, clear the table—be kind, always. You do a million invisible jobs; so do I. That’s our normal. Equality isn’t a speech in our house, it’s the boring everyday stuff. Theo’s grown up watching it. The so-called “princess treatment” people joke about online is just the bare minimum in our family. He sees me do it for you, for my mum, for my sister, and he copies without even realising.

It still feels strange being here without the whole circus. Two years since the last show of the tour ended, and I’ve stayed mostly tucked away—London, the countryside place in Italy when we need quiet, and little trips like this. I’m thirty-one now. Married to you since 2020, together since 2016, and we’ve worked hard to keep the kids out of the limelight. They deserve a childhood, not headlines.

Theo walks a step ahead, holding one of the paper bags with both hands like it’s precious. He’s eight and he’s got this serious little crease between his brows when he’s concentrating. Every so often he glances back at Leah without even thinking about it. Meanwhile Leah’s steps get slower. She yawns so wide her whole face disappears. I’m ready to scoop her up, I can already feel the familiar weight on my hip, when Theo stops and turns. “Leah,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s heard you say it a thousand times. “D’you want me to carry you?”

She doesn’t bother with words. She just lifts her arms and gives a tiny nod. My heart does that stupid flip it still does, even after a year and a half of being her dad while Theo hands you the paper bag and slides his arms under her legs the way I’ve shown him. It’s not perfect, he’s eight, but he’s careful. He braces, lifts, and settles her against his chest like she’s made of glass. “Got you,” he whispers, and then, louder, to me, “I’m alright, Dad.”

I start to protest on instinct. “Mate, she’s heavy—”

“She’s not,” he cuts in, offended on her behalf. “She’s Leah.”

And that’s that. He starts walking again, slower but steady. Leah’s head drops onto his shoulder, hair sticking up in the messy little spikes you tried to tame this morning. Theo adjusts his grip, inch by inch, until she’s comfortable. Within seconds her breathing goes deep and she’s asleep. Out cold, trusting him completely.

I watch my son carry my daughter through Rome like it’s the most natural thing in the world and I feel proud in a way that makes my throat tight. He’s always been like this with her. He fetches her water bottle. He offers her the last strawberry. If she can’t reach something, he’s already there. If her hair’s in her eyes, he tries to smooth it back with hands that are too big for the job but determined anyway. A bus honks. Theo doesn’t flinch. He just tightens his hold and keeps going, like the world can be as noisy as it wants, but it won’t knock his sister out of his arms.

You glance at me, and I can tell you’re seeing it too, there's that soft, stunned look you get when you’re trying not to make a big deal out of something, but you’re glowing anyway. At the edge of the car park, the sun hits us between buildings, bright and sudden. Theo slows, still carrying Leah, scanning for the car.

I step closer to you and slide my arm around your shoulders, thumb caressing the back of your neck. I lean in, voice low so it’s just for you. “Looks like we’ve done somethin’ right, love,” I murmur, “We’re raisin’ a proper little gentleman.”