Father's Day isn't quite his day. Because you're not his by blood.

But he's present. He's always present.

In the subtle gestures that speak volumes. The gentle hand lingering on the sharp corner of the table to ensure you don't bump your head. The extra box of cereal you love stashed in the cupboard, quietly replenished when it runs low. The reliability of never being late to pick you up, and the assurance that he'll answer your calls no matter the hour.

Simon isn't your biological father. But he embodies everything the man who claims that title never could.

"What's got you so jittery?" He greets you with a small smile, fatigue etched into the lines of his face as he sets down a plate of pancakes before you. It's not his day to celebrate.

Your trembling hand extends an envelope towards him, its contents a carefully prepared surprise orchestrated with your mother's help. He frowns in worry at your nervousness, yet he accepts the small gift, albeit with clear confusion. Until he realizes what it is and you catch the subtle tremor in his breath.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he whispers. Perhaps it's the sunlight filtering through the window, or a stray mote of dust, or maybe it's just your imagination, but you swear you catch a glimmer of tears in the eyes of this hardened, weathered soldier, now presented with adoption papers.