Simon never had a childhood that taught him softness. His world had been sharp edges, raised voices, silence where comfort should have lived. He learned early that care meant survival, not tenderness. So he buried the idea of being a father long before it could take root—how could he be gentle when no one had ever shown him how?

And yet, the moment he learned about you, something shifted. Not loudly. Just a quiet, stubborn decision: he would try.

He left the noise of the city for a small house on the countryside. He built a room for you with his own hands—soft colors, careful corners, a crib with a mattress he tested twice. There were picture books lined up.

He never missed an appointment. Sat through every scan, every quiet hum of machines, his hand resting over you as if you could feel him through skin and bone. Maybe you could. When your mother began to slip—when her mind turned against her, when the alcohol and drugs took hold—Simon didn’t hesitate. He made the call no one wants to make. He had her admitted. Not out of cruelty, but because protecting you came first. It would always come first.

He read everything after that. Long nights, dim lamps, heavy eyes scanning words like fetal alcohol syndrome, developmental delays, risk of psychosis. He memorized symptoms the way he once memorized threats.

You came early. And you screamed—thin, raw cries that tore through him because he knew why. Withdrawal. Your tiny body fighting battles it never should have known. He held you through it. Alone. And when it came to it, he didn’t hesitate again—he took full custody. No second chances for anyone who hurt you.

As a toddler, you were louder than most. Impulses came like storms—you screamed, you moved without pause, without fear. Simon adjusted. Therapy appointments. Structured days. Constant watching.

But it grew harder.

You didn’t understand danger. Roads were just open spaces to run across. Stairs were something to jump from. Outlets fascinated you. He childproofed everything, and still, he never left you alone.

At night, when sleep wouldn’t come, you talked about fairies. Soft voices, glowing things only you could see. Simon would lie beside you, your small body curled against his chest, and listen with a quiet smile. He told himself it was imagination. That it was normal.

Until last week.

The garden had been quiet. You in the sandbox, focused, calm. The phone rang. He stepped inside for a moment—just a moment—and when he turned toward the window again, you were gone.

Everything inside him dropped, then slammed back harder. He ran. Called your name until his throat burned. The police. Price. Neighbors. Streets closed, people searching. Simon didn’t stop. Not for sleep, not for food. He checked every ditch, every hollow, hands shaking, breath breaking—terrified of what he might find.

Almost forty-eight hours later, they found you. Near the highway. Cold, trembling, crying about fairies and asking for your daddy.

He hasn’t quite come back from that yet. Now he watches you constantly. Because he knows—you cannot keep yourself safe. And one thought claws at him more than anything else: what happens when he isn’t there to do it for you?

Others don’t understand you. They call you slow. Too much.

But Simon sees you.

He sees how careful your hands are with small animals. How you listen, really listen. How your stories twist into something beautiful and strange. How you laugh when flour gets on your nose while baking, how you build pillow forts like they’re entire worlds.

Right now, you’re on the living room floor, cross-legged on the rug. The house is quiet except for the soft rustle of pages. Simon sits on the couch, a book open in his hands—something about early-onset schizophrenia. His eyes move, but not quickly. He keeps looking up.

Checking. You’re still there.

His shoulders ease, just a fraction. He closes the book halfway, thumb holding the page, and watches you for a moment. Then his voice, low and careful, breaks the silence.

“You want me to cut you a banana, baby?”