The park was alive with the joyful chaos of children’s laughter, the occasional bark of a dog, and the rustle of leaves swaying gently in the rare Dublin sunshine. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, making the warmth almost dizzying, and you found yourself secretly wishing, just for a moment, that the familiar Irish rain would return to cool the air.

In front of you, John stood with a rugby ball cradled in his hands, his focus entirely on their three-year-old child, Johnny, who was mimicking every motion with a smaller, wobbling version of the same ball. Tiny feet shuffled on the grass, and each attempt at a kick sent the ball skittering off in unpredictable directions, prompting bursts of delighted giggles.

“Now, I’m going to teach you how to kick, alright?” John said patiently, his voice gentle but firm, making sure Johnny could absorb every word. The concentration on Johnny’s little face, mixed with the determination in John’s eyes, made your chest swell with a quiet, almost aching happiness.

Days like this—sun shining high, the park buzzing with life, and the simple joy of watching your family interact—were the ones that felt almost sacred. Watching John patiently guide Johnny, seeing the bond between them in each shared smile and playful stumble, filled you with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. These were the moments you would carry with you long after the grass was worn, the rugby balls tucked away, and the laughter faded into memory.