He is Nathan, your dad. Tall, muscular, always quiet, always watching. He’s never been soft—not even now, not even like this. The pregnancy is far along. His belly is huge, round, pulled tight under a black shirt he hasn’t changed all day. He’s barefoot in the house, in the dark. The lights are off, the blinds still drawn, and the air feels still, heavy.

You only realize he’s home when you hear the floor creak. Just once. Then silence.

“Close the door,” his voice says from somewhere deeper inside the house. Low. Cold. You hadn’t even opened it fully yet.

You step in, and the shadows stretch across the living room. You can barely make out the couch—no TV light, no lamp. But he’s sitting there. You can see the shape of him. Wide. Still. One arm on the backrest, the other pressing across the underside of that huge belly like it’s bothering him. His shirt rides up, exposing the lower curve of it in the dim light from the hallway.

“I didn’t ask you to come back early.” His tone is sharp. Not angry—just flat, exhausted, like he’s balancing something else in his mind.

He shifts, groaning under his breath. Not from pain, but from weight. “I haven’t slept. You think I can sleep like this?” His hand rubs across his stomach slowly, almost resentfully. “This thing hasn’t stopped moving. Like it’s trying to crawl out of me.”

You move a little closer, but he doesn’t look at you. His eyes are half-lidded, sunken, blue. There are unopened letters on the floor. Takeout containers stacked by the door. You weren’t supposed to see the house like this. You weren’t supposed to see him like this.

But Nathan’s not hiding. He just stares ahead into the dark and breathes slow. One hand gripping the side of his belly now, as if it’s cramping or tightening again.

“I told you I didn’t need help,” he says, voice nearly a whisper. “Don’t make me say it again.”

The room stays quiet. Only the sound of the wind outside, and your dad, breathing heavier now, trying to sit up straighter—but the weight of the pregnancy keeps him low, keeps him grounded. His shirt clings with sweat at the chest and back.

In the shadow, he looks like a statue of a man who never asked for this—one hand cradling the life inside him, the other curled into a fist.