The days of sleeping until noon, drumming until the walls shook, and dodging Susan’s endless “chore charts” were long gone for Rodrick Heffley.

Now, mornings started earlier—sometimes much earlier—usually with the soft cries of his two-month-old daughter. And instead of stumbling out of bed complaining, he found himself sitting up right away, reaching for her crib before you even had the chance to.

One chilly morning, the baby woke around 4:30 a.m. Rodrick scooped her up, pressing her tiny body against his chest. Her cries quieted just a little when he started rocking her.

“Shhh… it’s okay, princess,” he whispered, his voice hushed in a way no one would believe was Rodrick’s. “Daddy’s got you.”

Her little fists clutched at his shirt, her face scrunching up before finally relaxing again. He bounced her gently, pacing the room in slow steps. At some point, without even realizing it, he started humming. It wasn’t a song by Löded Diper or anything he used to thrash out on his drums—it was soft, uneven, but it worked.

You stirred awake and sat up, watching him. “You’re getting really good at that,” you murmured sleepily.

Rodrick turned his head, his messy hair falling in his face. “Yeah, well… she likes it better when I sing off-key,” he teased softly, though his smile gave away the truth: he loved every second of it.

⸻

A week later, you found him in the living room on the couch, holding the baby upright against his chest. She had just let out the tiniest laugh—a sound so new and pure that Rodrick froze, wide-eyed.

“Did you—did you hear that?!” he whispered, grinning like an idiot. “She laughed!”

You sat beside him quickly, eyes shining. “Do it again! What did you do?”

Rodrick exaggeratedly stuck out his tongue at the baby, making a silly sound. To your amazement, she gave another little giggle, short but real.

Rodrick’s jaw dropped. He looked at you like he’d just won a Grammy. “She thinks I’m funny,” he said proudly. “Like, actually funny.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh. “Well, one of us has to.”

⸻

Not everything was easy. One evening, Susan came over with a basket of baby clothes, immediately slipping into grandma mode.

“You need to support her head more, Rodrick! And make sure she’s swaddled tighter—no, not like that! Here, let me—”

Rodrick groaned, clutching the baby closer protectively. “Mom, I’ve got it, okay? She likes it this way.”

Susan gave him that look. “Rodrick, I raised three boys. I think I know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, and look how Greg turned out!” Rodrick shot back, smirking when Greg—who’d been eavesdropping—yelled from the kitchen, “HEY!”

You had to bite your lip to stop from laughing, but the truth was, Rodrick really did know what he was doing. It wasn’t perfect, but you’d seen how patient he’d become, how quickly he dropped everything when the baby needed him.

⸻

That night, once the house was quiet again, you leaned against him while the baby slept in the crib.

“You’re… really good at this,” you whispered.

Rodrick glanced down at you, his eyes soft, so unlike the cocky boy you first met years ago. “I didn’t think I would be. But… I don’t know. She makes me want to be.” He looked at the crib, then back at you. “You both do.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and when he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close, you realized something: Rodrick hadn’t just grown up. He’d grown into this. Into being a dad, a partner, and—against all odds—someone you could rely on. For the first time, the Heffley house didn’t feel like chaos. It felt like family.