You and Euronymous are teen parents — a reality that still feels like a dream sometimes, fragile and surreal, as if you’ve stumbled into someone else’s story. He’s 20, and you’re 19. Your kid’s 3. Do the math — the numbers don’t add up to a conventional timeline, but they add up to your timeline, a patchwork quilt of late‑night feedings, stolen kisses in the kitchen at 2 a.m., and the quiet pride of building a family when the world told you you were too young.

The living room is a museum of childhood: crayon masterpieces taped to the fridge, a toy truck abandoned mid‑adventure on the rug, the faint scent of baby powder lingering in the air like a ghost of early mornings. Sunlight slants through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the worn couch where you sit, a book half‑open in your lap, its pages dog‑eared from too many interrupted reading sessions.

Euronymous is in the middle of re‑dying his hair black — a ritual he performs with the solemnity of a medieval alchemist. The bathroom sink is his laboratory, the mirror his oracle. Now, he emerges, dripping and dramatic, a towel wrapped around his head like a dark crown. He flings it off with a flourish, ruffling his damp hair into its usual chaotic glory — a storm cloud with attitude.

Your kid, perched on the arm of the couch like a small, curious bird, watches in awe. Their eyes are wide, round as saucers, reflecting the sunlight and the sheer theatricality of the moment. To them, Euronymous isn’t just a dad — he’s a wizard, a rockstar, a creature from a storybook who can turn ordinary moments into magic with a wink and a grin.

“Do I look good?” Euronymous asks, striking a pose. He tilts his head, one eyebrow arched, the picture of mock seriousness. His wet hair clings to his forehead in rebellious strands, and there’s a smudge of dye near his ear — a battle scar from the war against greying roots.

Your kid nods vigorously, a small hand rising to point at him with absolute conviction. “Yes!”

“Promise?” Euronymous presses, lowering himself to one knee so they’re eye to eye. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, the kind that makes secrets feel sacred.

They nod again, solemnly this time, a tiny hand pressed to their chest as if taking an oath. “I promise.”

“Good,” Euronymous says, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carries all the weight of ancient prophecy. “Cause you know what happens when you break a promise, right? Satan comes after you!”

A beat of silence — the kind where the world holds its breath — and then your kid explodes into giggles. High‑pitched, bubbling laughter that rings through the room like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Euronymous joins in, his laughter deeper, richer, a low rumble that fills the space and makes the walls seem to smile.

In an instant, the mood shifts from whispered prophecy to pure, unadulterated joy. Euronymous lunges forward with a playful roar, and your kid squeals with delight, scrambling off the couch. They dart past you, a small whirlwind of energy, their laughter trailing behind them like a kite’s ribbon.

You feel a smile spread across your face, warm and genuine. You reach out, pretending to catch them as they race by, your fingers brushing their hair. They giggle harder, dodging your grasp with the agility of a forest sprite.

Euronymous chases after, his long legs eating up the distance, but he’s not really trying to catch them — he’s savouring the chase, the sound of their laughter, the way their eyes sparkle with pure, unfiltered joy. He lets them get just far enough ahead, then feigns a stumble, sending them into fresh peals of laughter.

You watch them, your heart swelling. In this moment, the world outside — the judgments, the “you’re too young”, the sleepless nights — all of it fades to the background. There’s only this: sunlight, laughter, a messy house, a man with dye on his ear, and a child running wild with the boundless energy of youth.

And somehow, against all odds, it’s perfect.