The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Simon sat cross-legged on the bed, his broad frame dwarfing little Michael, who was perched beside him. The toddler, barely two years old, had his father’s pale complexion, though his cheeks were flushed a bright rosy red, as if kissed by the cold. What stood out most, however, was the shock of ginger hair atop his head—a trait neither you nor Simon had anticipated when he was born.

You stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching the two of them interact. Simon had one arm casually resting behind Michael, ensuring he didn’t topple over, while his other hand fiddled with a small toy car Michael had been clutching moments earlier.

“Look at you, mate,” Simon said, his deep voice laced with amusement as he gently tugged at one of Michael’s tiny socks. “You’ve got hair brighter than a bloody sunset. Didn’t see that coming, did we?”

Michael giggled, his laugh a high-pitched, infectious sound that brought a smile to your face. He reached for Simon’s fingers, grabbing at them with his tiny hands, his chubby fingers clinging to Simon’s much larger ones.

“Careful, now,” Simon teased, lifting Michael’s hand slightly as if he were helping him practice some kind of handshake. “Strong grip for a little lad. Gonna need that if you’re gonna wrestle your old man someday.”