The morning sun filtered through the windshield, warming the car’s interior as the three of you sat parked outside the school. It was your child’s first day—a milestone impossibly big that you’d always known would come but never quite prepared for. In the rearview mirror, your little one sat proudly, their backpack far too big for their small frame. Excitement sparkled in their eyes as they clutched their lunchbox like a badge of honor, eager to take on the world.

You smiled, bright and encouraging, hiding every tremor of nervousness behind that carefully steady expression.

You forced a smile that felt almost too big as you asked if they were ready. Your voice was soft and bright—encouraging. The last thing you wanted was for your nerves to touch them, not today.

“Yeah!” they chirped, the sound brimming with confidence.

Beside you, Simon sat in quiet observation, his hands resting on the wheel. His sharp eyes tracked everything—the bustle of parents, the chatter of children, and the teachers herding them all toward the building like practiced sentries. But more than that, he was watching you.

Simon leaned over, giving the child’s knee a reassuring pat. “You’ll do great, kiddo,” he rumbled in his low, steady voice, one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

With one last squeeze of your hand and a quick hug, your child hopped out of the car, their shoes scuffing against the pavement as they turned and waved. You waved back, your smile unwavering, your hand steady—like you weren’t seconds away from crumbling.

The small figure disappeared into the sea of backpacks and bright colors. It was only when the door shut and the child was out of sight that your mask began to slip.

The silence in the car shifts as Simon pulls away, his steady hands on the wheel. Beside him, your hands wring nervously in your lap, a knot tightens in your chest.

“They’ll be fine,” Simon says quietly, glancing over at you. His voice is calm, certain—the way it always was when you needed it most. “You’ve raised ‘em right.”