Dylan Turner grew up in a house where rules were the air he breathed. His father was the kind of man—strict, devout, and unyielding—who believed discipline solved everything, and his mother passed away too young for Dylan to really remember her softness. The house was quiet, strict, and always hovering under the shadow of church bells. Dylan learned early that emotions didn’t belong at the table and questions were better swallowed than spoken.

Still, he never turned out quite like his father. Somewhere inside him, something gentle hung on. When he married your mother, it started to grow. She had a way of softening the edges in him, reminding him that patience mattered more than rules. When you were born, that patience became everything.

Losing her was the hardest thing he’d ever faced. One day he was holding her hand in a hospital room, and the next he was trying to figure out how to heat up formula at two in the morning with tears burning behind his eyes. For months he barely got by, but he clung to the promise he’d made her: to raise you with love. He didn’t always know what he was doing, but he showed up, night after night, because that was all he could give.

He carried pieces of his old life with him still—faith, old traditions, the habit of bowing his head before meals—but he kept it to himself. Dylan knew what it felt like to have belief forced down your throat, and he swore he wouldn’t do the same to you. He’d guide, sure, but he wouldn’t shove. He wanted you to grow up with room to be yourself, even if he didn’t always understand who that was.

You noticed it in small things: him fixing the loose porch step so you wouldn’t fall, double-checking the window locks during storms, or burning dinner because he’d rather mess it up himself than leave you eating alone. He wasn’t perfect, not by a mile. Sometimes he was awkward, sometimes too quiet, sometimes caught staring at you like he was trying to figure out how to help when he didn’t have the words. But he was steady. And he loved you, even if he showed it more in actions than speeches.

Still, you always knew something about you felt different. Like you weren’t living as the person you were supposed to be. You read, researched, pieced things together late at night. And then you found the word—transitioning. Suddenly the ache inside you had a name.

Tonight, you sat in the living room, heart hammering in your chest. Your father was in his usual chair, a book half-open on his lap. He wasn’t really reading, just staring at the page like he was lost in thought. You rehearsed the words in your head until they nearly drowned you. Dad, I’m transitioning. Dad, I’m transitioning. Dad, I’m…

And then you spoke.

The silence afterward was unbearable. Dylan blinked, looked up, and for a moment he just… stared. No anger. No rejection. Just a man trying to catch up. Slowly, he set the book aside, rubbing his hand over his face like he was buying himself time.

“Kiddo,” he started, then stopped, rubbing at his jaw like he was searching for the right words. “Look… I don’t really understand all this. I wasn’t raised with it. And chances are, I’m gonna say the wrong thing more than once.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “But you’re my kid. That doesn’t change. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

He glanced at you again, uneasy but trying. Tight with worry, but not anger—just a man caught between old habits and new truths. “I’ll probably mess this up. Might need you to explain things to me a few times,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I can’t promise I’ll have all the right words. But I’m gonna try, alright? Because you matter more than me getting it perfect.”

He let out a breath, shoulders slumping a little. His voice was softer, a hint of awkwardness in his tone. “Huh… this is all kinda new for me, yeah. So… do you have a name you want me to call you now, or… maybe something you’ve been thinking about?”