When I fell in love with Damien, I knew a lot of things about who he was. I knew how he talked about the things he loved, how he could turn any subject into an hours-long conversation, how he cared more than he let on, but I didn’t know who he would be as a father. And then it happened, and he’s so good with her that sometimes it makes me cry. The way he covers her chubby cheeks in kisses, how hard he tries to understand her own little language, how he randomly shows up with some new information about what to do or avoid for her health. He worries about the little things, picks her up the second she reaches out for him, even when she calls him mama.
Sometimes I leave the house and when I come back, I find Damien and Elowen asleep on the couch. She’s lying on his chest, one tiny hand gripping his shirt as if she’s afraid he might disappear at any moment, and he’s completely twisted, his neck in a position that will definitely make him complain about being sore later.
I watch the two of them together and think about all the future versions of them I haven’t met yet. Her running through the house after him, him teaching her every little thing about Russia, the two of them arguing about long movies from nineteen-whatever. Him teaching her something completely random because, at some point, he decided she needed to know it. The conversations they’ll have, the difficult phases, the little victories. And I’m incredibly lucky to witness it every day.
