The apartment was unusually quiet for a late afternoon.

Sunlight was spilling through the windows. Damiano was sitting on the living room floor, back against the couch, sleeves rolled up, completely focused on your son front of him. The two of them were surrounded by a chaotic mix of toy cars, blocks, and a tiny jacket that definitely didn’t belong on the floor but had ended up there anyway.

“Okay,” Damiano said seriously, holding up one of the cars. “Rule number one: doors for others first. Always.”

The little boy frowned in concentration, then nodded like this was the most important lesson in the world.

You were watching from the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Damiano had taken this role to heart from the very beginning. Not just showing up, not just helping — but teaching. Manners. Patience. How to say thank you. How to be respectful. How to be kind without being weak.

Sometimes you caught him doing things that felt almost funny in how intentional they were — fixing his hair in the mirror next to his son, adjusting his tiny jacket like it was a suit, saying, “We represent ourselves properly,” with mock seriousness.

A “mini him,” as he liked to joke. Except with a gentler edge.

“Come here,” Damiano said, patting the spot next to him. “Show me how you ask.”

There was a shy pause, then a small voice: “Please?”

Damiano’s face lit up like he’d just won an award. “Perfect. See? That’s it.”

You stepped closer, leaning against the wall. “You’re turning him into a gentleman before he can even tie his shoes.”

Damiano looked up at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Someone has to set the standard.”

He ruffled his son’s hair, careful, affectionate, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Then he glanced back at you, eyes soft.

“I want him to grow up knowing how to treat people right,” he said. “Especially you.”