Father V0 13 0 Easter Westy: Proud

But this year—this —something clicked. The night before, I’d stayed up later than I should have. Not wrapping presents. Not stuffing eggs. Just sitting in the dark living room, looking at the empty spot on the rug where Theo’s train track had been. The house was quiet except for the central heating’s low cough.

I sat up. I looked at him—pajama shirt inside out, one sock missing, orange sugar dust on his chin. “Yeah, bud,” I said. “You’re the kindest.” proud father v0 13 0 easter westy

This is what taught me: pride is not in the grand gestures. It’s in the small, secret labors. The carrot bite. The careful hiding of the chocolate egg behind the dictionary on the bottom shelf (because Theo can’t read yet, but he knows the dictionary is heavy and boring, so he never looks there). The decision, at 10:15 PM, to not check work email, but instead to write a note from the Easter Bunny in wobbly, non-dominant-hand handwriting. But this year—this —something clicked

Not a finished man.

I opened one eye. There he was: my son, Theo, age four and three-quarters (the three-quarters being vital). His hair was a bird’s nest of sleep and chocolate anticipation. In his hand, a single orange Peep—already slightly squashed, its sugar shell beginning to melt. Not stuffing eggs