“Daddy,” he said, serious now. “The bunny says I’m kind. Am I kind?”
For the uninitiated: fatherhood doesn’t ship as a finished product. You don’t wake up on delivery day with a gold master. You get an alpha—crying, sleepless, terrifying. Then beta: the walking, the talking, the tantrums in the cereal aisle. Each holiday, each season, each tiny catastrophe and triumph increments the version number. proud father v0 13 0 easter westy
He nodded, satisfied, and ran off to find the next egg. Here’s the thing about West Yorkshire on Easter morning. It’s not picturesque. It’s not a chocolate box. The hills are moody. The sky is a pewter lid. But there’s a particular light—a stubborn, hopeful light—that breaks through around 8 AM. It hits the damp pavement and makes everything glisten. “Daddy,” he said, serious now
Not a finished man.
Fatherhood is not a finished product. It never will be. There will be v0.14.0 (the first lost tooth), v1.0.0 (the first day of school, terrifying and glorious), and versions I cannot yet imagine—the teenage betas, the adult release candidates, the day he leaves home and I am left with the source code of memory. You don’t wake up on delivery day with a gold master
“Daddy,” he said, stopping suddenly. “Why Easter?”