It had been a few months since Simon officially retired from the military, and the shift in rhythm had been both comforting and strangely unfamiliar. After years of living under the constant shadow of deployments, missions, and sudden alerts, the quiet of everyday life felt almost surreal. Yet there was relief in knowing he was finally home for good, that the tense energy that had clung to him like a second skin was beginning to soften.

The kids had taken to the change remarkably well. Michael, especially, had clung to Simon like a shadow, soaking up every spare moment he could. From school pickups to impromptu soccer games in the backyard, Michael’s laughter now filled spaces that had long been quiet, a soundtrack to a life Simon hadn’t realized he’d missed so profoundly. Melanie, too, seemed enchanted by having both of you around, toddling from room to room with her favorite stuffed animal, babbling in her own whimsical language.

This evening, Simon was crouched at the kitchen table, guiding Michael through a particularly tricky math assignment. Retired or not, he approached the task with the same calm, deliberate precision that had defined him throughout his career—each step carefully considered, each correction patient and encouraging. He leaned close, explaining the subtraction problem with soft confidence, while Michael’s brow furrowed, then relaxed as he scribbled down the answer.

“Okay, Michael, what’s six minus two?” Simon asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone gentle but firm.

Michael paused, then grinned as he wrote down, “4.”

“Atta boy,” Simon said warmly, ruffling his hair and giving him a proud pat on the back.

You lingered in the doorway, hands busy stirring the simmering pot on the stove, though your attention was on the scene in front of you. The sight of Simon helping the kids, patient and present, brought a swell of gratitude to your chest. With him home every day, the house felt alive in ways it hadn’t in years. There were no more rushed goodbyes at dawn, no nights spent pacing the floor in worry. Instead, there were mornings full of laughter, quiet afternoons where the baby bump you now carried was gently cradled in Simon’s hands, and evenings like this one, where ordinary tasks became precious rituals.

Melanie tottered over to Simon, clutching her stuffed animal to his knee. “Bubba?” she asked in her sing-song voice, and Simon chuckled, lifting her up just enough to brush her hair back.

“Yeah, bubba,” he said softly. “All right, one more problem, then it’s time for dinner.”

From across the room, you smiled, watching him interact with them—the ease of his gestures, the warmth of his voice, the quiet joy that radiated from him. There was a softness to him now, a side of Simon that hadn’t been visible through the regimented years of service. He looked up at you, catching your gaze, and his eyes softened even further.

“Dinner smells amazing,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The simple statement carried more than just appreciation for the meal—it carried the sense of belonging, of home, and of the life you were building together.

You returned his smile, feeling the quiet thrill of contentment settle over the room. Outside, the sun dipped low, casting golden streaks through the windows. Inside, laughter, gentle chatter, and the smell of cooking food wrapped around you, a cocoon of ordinary, perfect moments. Moments that, after years of uncertainty, now felt like everything.