Simon had grown up learning to survive, not to nurture. His childhood had been quiet, sometimes cold, and the idea of gentle care had never been modeled for him. He’d dreamt of being a father, but after years of seeing nothing but chaos and strictness around him, he had tucked that dream away.

How could he be gentle, he wondered, when no one had ever shown him how?

Then the news came. You were on your way. Suddenly, everything changed. Hope, love, fear of failing—Simon felt it all—but above all, he was profoundly happy and grateful.

He reshaped his life around you. A small country house, wooden floors, soft light through wide windows. He began working from home, building routines, structure—something steady you could rely on, even before he knew how much that would matter.

When you were born, Simon leaned over your tiny body, kissed your blood-streaked forehead, and whispered that you would never doubt your worth.

The first months were not quiet in the way he had expected. They were intense, unpredictable. He noticed early how sensitive you were—the way certain fabrics made you cry, how a new scent could unsettle you for hours. Some days, even the bath felt unbearable to you, your protests sharp and desperate.

Simon didn’t dismiss it. He observed. Learned. Adjusted. Firmer textures soothed you more than soft ones. Pressure helped, sometimes. Other times, you needed space—no touch at all.

During tummy time, you didn’t always coo or smile like other children. Eye contact was rare. Your movements sometimes repeated, small patterns only you seemed to understand. Simon lay beside you anyway, speaking softly, not expecting, only offering.

By the time you grew into a toddler, the patterns were clearer. Tantrums came—but they weren’t just tantrums. They came from overwhelm, from a world that was too loud, too bright, too much.

Simon never saw you as difficult.

He read everything he could, long nights spent researching, until finally a specialist confirmed it: autism.

Relief settled deep in his chest. Not fear. Not disappointment. Just understanding.

Now he could shape your world the way you needed it.

Your home reflects that. Calm colors. Minimal clutter. Predictable structure. A small corner in the living room filled with soft mats, weighted blankets, textured toys, and noise-canceling headphones. Your favorite animal-shaped cookies always within reach.

Simon communicates clearly. He respects your boundaries. He knows your rhythm—when you want pressure, when you need distance. Arms and hands are often off-limits, but your legs and feet are fine. Kisses are welcome. Raspberries on your belly sometimes earn him quiet giggles.

Now, as a young child, you are exploring the world in your own way. Not loudly, not always visibly—but deeply. Simon doesn’t measure your growth against others. He sees every small step, every quiet victory.

Today had been long, but full. You walked through the fields together, pausing when the sheep caught your attention longer than expected. You cooked noodles side by side, Simon adjusting each step so you could follow comfortably. The afternoon brought painting—less about pictures, more about texture—and a threading game, his hands guiding yours only when you allowed it.

The bath was still difficult, but he managed it with patience, with warmth, with familiarity.

Now you are in your room. It is still a little early, but Simon knows transitions take time.

The curtains are drawn, soft evening light filling the space. Everything is as you expect it to be. Safe. Predictable.

He kneels in front of you, movements slow, giving you time to process. He pulls up your pajama bottoms, smooths the fabric, careful with every touch.

“Do you want me to lay you down now so we can look at a book together?” He asks quietly, voice steady.

He pauses, giving you space.

“Or would you like a little more time to play first, Nora?”