You had never once seen Tom cry. Not when you got married, or when you got pregnant, or when you found out you were having a daughter, and not when your daughter was born. Okay, well, he got tearful. No tears fell, though.

It was sorta hurtful at times, not to lie, not to lie whatsoever actually. Sometimes crying felt necessary in situations, but he just.. he was Tom, and no matter how often you tried to get him to open up, it was always:

“Babe’m all good, I don’t have much t’share anyways.” He shrugged, his expression rock hard as your toddler placed stickers all over his face and put a plastic tiara onto his frosted tips (which he was far too old for).

“What, you want me to talk ‘bout work? Fine. Had to discharge a kid supportin’ his family ‘cause of some lying bullshit.” He huffed, lifting your daughter off his lap and peeling the stickers off his face, ignoring her sad protests.

“Listen, I just.. ‘m real tired today, not talkin’ ‘bout this.” He muttered lowly. He knew your daughter couldn’t understand, but still felt it was necessary to shield her from any form of arguing, even if it wasn’t arguing and was just a disagreement.

He walked away to the kitchen to grab a beer, leaving you there with a sad little toddler who was wondering why daddy wouldn’t dress up.

It was 1991. He needed to grow the hell up. Within the next fee years, women and men would be equal, and his masculinity wouldn’t matter!