You’re focused and moving with a practiced ease while cooking.

Then you hear footsteps approaching.

“You’re back early,” you say.

There’s a pause.

“Our son made me a card.”

This makes you glance over your shoulder. Tom stands in the doorway, unusually still, holding something small.

“It says…” he continues, “‘even when you are scary, you are my favorite.’”

You blink, then turn fully towards him. “Oh my..”

Tom looks down at the card as if it might vanish if he stares at it too hard.

“There are red hearts,” he adds, almost as if reporting a strange phenomenon.

You can’t help it — a soft smile tugs at your lips. You set the spoon aside and step closer. “Are you crying?”

He straightens immediately. “I do not cry.”

A beat.

“I am… experiencing unexpected moisture.”

You raise an eyebrow.

There’s a very visible tear sliding down his cheek.

“Mhm.”

Ignoring that, he lifts the card slightly. "He has used disproportionate amounts of red ink. It is… inefficient.”

“Of course,” you say, gently taking the card to look at it.

Tom leans closer despite himself, eyes tracking every detail like it’s the most important document he’s ever examined.

“He thinks I’m scary,” he mutters.

You glance at him sideways. “Well…”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “And yet—” His voice falters for just a second. “—his favorite.”

You soften, reaching up to brush away the obvious tear.

“That tends to happen,” you murmur. “When someone loves you.”

Tom goes very still at that.

Another moment passes, then he carefully takes the card back.

“It will be preserved,” he declares. “Properly.”

You smile. “Good idea.”

A small voice echoes faintly from down the hall, calling for him.

Tom hesitates only a second before turning towards you. “This… moisture,” he says, quieter now, “is not to be mentioned.”