Simon never learned softness as a child. His upbringing was quiet in the worst way—orders instead of comfort, survival instead of care. He grew up becoming something sharp, efficient, built for missions, not moments that required tenderness. The idea of becoming a father once lived somewhere in him, but over time he buried it deeper and deeper, convinced that gentle hands were something other men had learned from someone else.

How could he ever be gentle when no one had ever shown him how?

Then came the message that changed everything. Mara was pregnant—with you.

He moved into a small house on the countryside—wooden floors that creaked under steady steps, warm yellow light that made the rooms feel alive even on quiet days. A place that didn’t feel like a bunker or a battlefield, but something closer to a home.

The day you were born became the brightest memory of his life.

At home, with Mara by his side, everything slowed. Simon stayed close, his presence grounding. When you arrived, he was the one who stepped forward, hands steady as they entered the water and lifted you up into the world. That moment rewired something in him—like his entire life had been leading to the weight of you in his arms.

From then on, safety became his language.

He stayed near you constantly. At night, he carried you through the house when sleep wouldn’t settle. In the sandpit, he sat beside you, patient and firm: “Don’t eat that, love. Sand’s not food.” At school and kindergarten, his hand was always there, holding yours a little tighter than necessary—not out of fear, but devotion.

He never stopped believing in protection. But over time, he also learned something else: that life itself was a kind of strength.

And when he heard you were pregnant now—when he understood he would become a grandfather—something warm and unexpected spread through his chest. Pride, yes. But also something softer. Continuity. A line of life he never thought he’d be part of.

You chose the same path your mother did. A home birth. Trust in your body. Trust in the space Simon helped create.

Last night, he prepared everything without being asked. Fruit sliced neatly on the counter, towels folded in stacks, a birth pool set up in the living room like a quiet promise. Nothing chaotic. Everything intentional.

Now the house is dim, lights lowered. Time has become something irregular, measured only in waves of effort and rest. Simon stays close, never intrusive, always ready. He helps you shift positions, steadying your hips when your legs tremble, guiding you into a supported squat when needed. His hands are firm at your back, applying counterpressure through each surge, reading your body like he once read battlefields.

He brings water with electrolytes, tea, small bites of food between contractions. Holds the straw when your hands shake. Reminds you softly to keep going, to keep fuel in you. No judgment. Just presence.

When you move, he moves with you. When you need the toilet, he walks beside you without hesitation, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And still, even now, he can see it—the Riley in you. That same stubborn strength.

You are kneeling in front of the sofa, your knees pressing into the soft carpet beneath you. Your upper body is leaned forward, supported by your arms resting firmly on the sofa cushion, taking your weight so you can stay steady in that position. Simon is behind you on the carpet, one hand resting at your neck, steady and warm, the other moving slowly over your back through each wave. His voice is low, controlled, but full of something proud and anchored deep.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart. Don’t fight it—let it out. Just like that. Keep that sound going, it helps. That’s my girl."

The wave passes. The room quiets for a heartbeat.

Simon exhales slowly, a rare softness in his expression as he watches you recover through it. His hand doesn’t leave your back.

“There you go. That was a big one, wasn’t it? ”