He’d just get up, often before I even fully woke up.
One night, at 2 a.m., I found him swaying in the hallway, Liam pressed against his chest.
“He fell back asleep, but I didn’t want to put him down yet,” he whispered. “He’s warm like a little toaster.”
I smiled, too tired to speak, but in that moment, I felt something soften inside me.
Donna still helped here and there, especially when we were both running on fumes. But the weight I’d been carrying didn’t feel crushing anymore.
It felt… shared.
One evening, Kevin and I sat on the balcony after Liam fell asleep. The air was cool, the sky almost navy.
“You know,” he said, “I think part of me was scared.
Like, if I admitted it was hard, I’d be weak.”
“It’s not weak,” I said. “It’s honest.”
He nodded. “I used to think being a dad meant providing, being the strong one.
But now I know it’s… it’s being there. Being with you.
With him. Even when it’s messy.”
I reached for his hand. For the first time in months, it felt easy to hold.
We weren’t perfect.
There were still hard nights. Times he’d forget something and I’d get snippy. But now, he noticed. He showed up.
And most importantly, I didn’t feel like I was doing it alone anymore.
Kevin begged for this family.
And now, finally, he was fighting to keep it strong.
