aurora

you could see it in how he held him close like a secret he’d waited his whole life to be told. how he loved him in a way that rewrote everything the world ever said about what fathers and sons should be.

because while the world expected fathers to be stern and boys to be strong, joshua gave your son something else entirely — the space to be soft. to feel deeply. to cry without shame, to reach for comfort without apology, to be both gentle and enough.

you saw it the moment your son was born.

they placed him on your chest first, and you watched joshua’s hand shake as he reached out, touched the tiniest part of your baby’s arm, and whispered, “hi, buddy.”

he was crying before the baby was.

not from fear. not from shock. not from the weight of it. but from the kind of overwhelming love that settles into your bones.

“he’s perfect,” he said, voice trembling. “i’m gonna love him so well.”

and he did.

joshua carried your son everywhere those first few months. in wraps, in slings, tucked against his chest like he never wanted to let go. he hummed lullabies into his hair, traced soft circles on his back, and spoke to him even when he couldn’t understand the words yet.

“you’re safe,” he’d whisper. “always safe with me.”

the baby didn’t know what those words meant yet.
but he felt it. and you did, too.

your son’s first real tantrum happened over a broken crayon.

he was three. overtired and overstimulated. crumpled on the floor in tears, fists balled up, face red and frustrated.

you were about to kneel beside him when joshua gently touched your arm.

“i’ve got him,” he said.

then he sat down the floor sitting across his son, letting him cry. he didn’t flinch, didn’t correct. he just waited. letting him express his feelings while also letting him know that he was there.

“hey. that was your favorite crayon, huh?” he asks softly.

he receives a tiny nod through hiccups.

“it’s okay to be sad about that. i get sad about things too.”

the crying didn’t stop right away. but your son crawled into joshua’s lap minutes later. not because he was told to, but because he wanted to. and joshua wrapped his arms around him like he had all the time in the world.

that was the moment your son learned he never had to be alone in his feelings.

sometimes, the world got louder than joshua could control.

like the day your son came home from daycare with red-rimmed eyes and stiff shoulders. he wasn’t crying anymore, not visibly, but you could see it in the way he avoided joshua’s gaze, how his small hands stayed balled in his lap during dinner, barely touching his food.

joshua knelt in front of him, “did something happen today, bud?”

your son hesitated, “i cried when i missed you. and some of the boys saw.”

joshua’s hands stilled.

“they all laughed at me,” your son continued. “said boys don’t cry. that i was acting like a baby. like a girl.”

each word came with less confidence than the last, like he wasn’t sure anymore what was okay to feel. like he was repeating a rule he didn’t understand but was suddenly supposed to follow.

joshua didn’t scold. nor did he try to explain it away. he just opened his arms and asked gently, “can i show you something?”

he climbed into joshua’s lap, pressing his face into the curve of his shoulder.

and there in the middle of the playroom, he let a single tear fall.

your son pulled back, wide-eyed. “daddy… are you crying?”

joshua nodded. “yeah, i am.”

“why?”

“i cry when i feel big things. like love. or sadness. or when i hear you say something that makes my heart heavy.”

your son looked at him with sad eyes.

“and today, hearing that they laughed at you, that made my heart hurt a lot.”

your son looked confused for a second. then his little arms went around joshua’s neck.

“sorry, daddy.”

“no need to be sorry,” joshua whispered. “it’s good to feel things. you’re allowed.”

and that was the moment your son learned his softness would never make him less.

they had a language all their own.

not in words, but in the way your son instinctively reached for joshua’s hand when he was unsure. how he laid his head on his dad’s shoulder when he was sleepy. how he never hesitated to say, “i love you, dad,” because he heard it so often, it just lived in his chest.

joshua was the kind of father who kissed his son’s forehead when he dropped him off at school. who packed handwritten notes in his lunchbox.

he wore matching pajamas with him on movie nights.
let him fall asleep against his side during bedtime stories. held him during fevers, nightmares, scraped knees, never once rushing the hug.

people still said joshua gave girl dad energy.

but if they could see what you saw, if they witnessed the way joshua raised your son with open hands and open arms, they’d understand.

this wasn’t about pink or blue, softness or strength.

this was about a boy who grew up knowing he never had to earn his father’s affection.

that love wasn’t conditional. that tenderness wasn’t weakness. that he could be everything he felt and still be whole.

joshua didn’t just raise a son.

he gave him the gift of belonging in every hug, in every gentle word, in every time he held him a little longer than the world said was “necessary.”

and one day, when your son is grown, you hope he remembers all of it.

the warmth. the softness. the safety.

for a long time, you believed your mess made you hard to love. maybe even impossible. but joshua proved you wrong. he showed you that being flawed didn’t make you unlovable. it made you human.

but still, his love wasn’t blind. it didn’t mean he would excuse every mistake, or let you hurt him, or yourself without saying a word.

it didn’t mean he’d walk on eggshells around your baggage or worship your broken parts and leave them untouched.

joshua’s love meant seeing you completely and loving you enough to call you out when you needed it, to stand beside you not just in your best moments, but in the ones where you had to learn and unlearn.

he loved you enough not to leave you as you were, but to believe in the person you were becoming. and there were moments. quiet, hard, necessary moments where he proved that to you.

sometimes, it’s in the way you would invalidate other people’s feelings, without meaning it.

“i just don’t understand, is it so fucking difficult to talk to me about it? why avoid the situation?” you snapped, pacing the room with your arms crossed, frustration radiating off you.

you were talking about your friend. how she pulled away after a misunderstanding, how she never replied to your message, how the silence felt louder than the fight itself. it hurt. but more than that, it made you angry. because in your world, silence meant abandonment. avoidance felt like rejection.

joshua listened quietly from where he sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. he didn’t interrupt you, not at first. he knew you needed to let it out.

but when you finally paused to catch your breath, he spoke, calm and steady, “baby… i know you’re hurt. and you have every right to be.”

you looked at him, arms still folded tightly.

“but not everyone knows how to handle conflict the way you do,” he continued. “and saying things like ‘is it so difficult’ might sound like you’re minimizing what she’s feeling.”

you blinked, the words hitting you like a cold splash of water.

“i’m not saying she’s right for not talking to you,” he added. “but maybe she’s scared. or confused. maybe she needs time to sort through it, just like you needed space before opening up to me that one time.”

you wanted to protest, say it’s not the same, but deep down, you knew he was right.

you hadn’t meant to invalidate your friend, you just didn’t know how to sit in the uncertainty of being misunderstood. and now, you were realizing that maybe this wasn’t just about her avoidance. maybe it was about your discomfort with not being in control of the outcome.

“you’re not the villain here,” joshua said gently. “but you’re not the only one hurting either.”

you sat down beside him, suddenly quiet. “i didn’t mean to sound like that…”

“i know,” he said, threading his fingers through yours. “but it’s good to ask yourself why it made you that angry.”

and you did. you didn’t have all the answers, but you had someone who helped you ask the right questions. someone who didn’t just take your side, but stood beside you. someone who loved you enough to tell you the truth, carefully, gently, but firmly, because he believed in the person you were trying to become.

he had this way of grounding you in perspective without making you feel small. of helping you take a step back without stepping away from you. he didn’t scold. he didn’t shame. he simply guided. like he trusted you’d get there, if someone just asked the right questions.

and joshua always knew how.

other times, it would be the way you’d lash out on someone dear to you.

it was past midnight. you were in the middle of reworking a paper you had already rewritten three times, eyes dry, head pounding, chest heavy from the weight of everything you’d been silently carrying for weeks.

you heard a soft knock on your door.

“can i come in?” your younger sibling asked.

you didn’t respond right away, but she opened the door anyway, a little hesitant.

“i was wondering if you could help me with something for school… it’s due tomorrow, and i’m kinda stuck.”

you looked up from your screen, the blinking cursor suddenly unbearable. something in you broke.

“you’re seriously asking for help now?” your voice cracked, louder than you meant. “you know i have a million things going on, right? or do you just assume i’ll always drop everything for you?”

your sibling blinked, clearly taken aback. “i didn’t mean to… i thought maybe you could spare just a few minutes…”

“yeah, well, i can’t.” you cut in. “i’m tired. i’m always tired. but no one seems to care as long as i keep showing up, right?”

your words were unstoppable, like a broken record player.

she stood there quietly for a few seconds before saying, “i just thought… if anyone understood how hard it gets, it’d be you.”

and then she left. no door slam. no attitude. just silence.

you stared at the doorway long after she was gone, heart pounding with guilt. because deep down, you knew she wasn’t being careless. she came to you because she trusted you. because she looked up to you.

but tonight, you were too deep in your own exhaustion to be kind. and instead of setting the weight down, you threw it at someone who didn’t deserve to carry it.

when you brought it up to joshua the next day, voice low, unsure if you even deserved comfort, he just listened. and then, with that calm steadiness you’d come to know so well,

“you’re not wrong for feeling tired. or angry. you’ve had to grow up faster than most. and that kind of weight doesn’t just disappear.”

you nodded, eyes stinging.

“but sometimes,” he added gently, “the hardest part about healing is realizing that the people closest to you aren't the cause of your pain, but they can still be the ones who get hit by it.”

and again, he did what he always did best.

he didn’t dismiss your pain. he didn’t defend your reaction.

he just handed you the truth with tenderness, helping you see the version of yourself that needed care and accountability.

not to shame you.

but to remind you that even the eldest daughters deserve softness, so they can learn to pass it on.

most times, it’s joshua who you pour all the mess into.

your exhaustion, your doubts, your quiet unravelings when everything feels like too much. and most times, he carries it with grace. never asking for much, never holding it against you.

but even the steadiest hands get tired when they’re holding something sharp.

that night, you were worn thin. deadlines, expectations, the endless mental load of trying to be everything to everyone. you'd barely slept. you hadn’t eaten properly in days. and when joshua came over with takeout and a gentle “let’s take a break tonight,” it didn’t land as love. it landed as pressure.

you were halfway through rereading a document you’d already rewritten three times when he spoke again, quieter this time.

“you don’t have to keep pushing like this, you know. you’re allowed to rest.”

you didn’t look at him. “i am resting.”

he chuckled lightly, trying to ease the tension. “baby, reading a 20-page report in silence isn’t rest.”

and maybe it was the word baby, or the softness in his voice, or just the timing, but something inside you snapped.

“can you stop acting like you know what’s best for me all the time?” you said, sharper than you intended. “i’m not your project. i don’t need saving.”

joshua’s smile faltered. you could see the shift in his eyes right away. not hurt. not shock. just… stillness. maybe a hint of disappointment.

he stood there for a few seconds before carefully setting the takeout bag down on the table.

“i’m not trying to fix you,” he said quietly. “i’m here because i love you. but love doesn’t mean i’m going to just sit back while you burn yourself out.”

you rolled your eyes, already regretting the words but too proud to take them back. “i didn’t ask for your opinion.”

he exhaled slowly. not angry. just tired.

“okay,” he said, stepping back. “then maybe I need to give you space until you do.”

he didn’t slam the door. didn’t make a scene. just walked out with that same calm grace you always admired, but now, it left an ache in his absence.

you sat there alone, heart pounding, the weight of your own words sinking in.

you could no longer focus on that report you were reading, instead you let yourself get consumed by your thoughts. this is it isn’t it. he got tired of me.

but he came back the next evening,

like he always does.

you didn’t expect him to. a part of you thought maybe that was it, maybe this time, you pushed too hard, said too much. you kept replaying your words like static in your head. i don’t need saving. you didn’t even mean it. not like that. but that’s the thing about sharp edges, you don’t always mean to cut, but the wounds stay anyway.

so when you heard a soft knock at the door, your chest ached.

you opened it slowly, and there he was, joshua, with no food in hand, no smile to cushion the silence. just him. still. quiet. steady.

“can we talk?” he asked gently.

you nodded and let him in, your throat already tightening.

he sat on the edge of the couch. not too close, not too far. the space between you carried every word you hadn’t said yesterday.

“i want to be here,” he started, “but i need to know that you’re not going to keep pushing me away every time you’re overwhelmed.”

you looked down at your hands, now cold in your lap. “i know,” you whispered. “i know i was out of line.”

you swallowed the knot forming in your throat, but the tears came anyway, slow, hesitant, like you were still trying not to be “too much” even in your apology.

“i didn’t mean any of it,” you said shakily. “i was just, tired. overwhelmed. and you were trying to help, and i—i took it out on you. again.”

your voice broke on that word. again.

“i hate that i do this. that you have to deal with it. with me.” you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“and i’m scared that one day, you’ll get tired of me. of this. of this mess.”

you looked at him then, eyes rimmed red, your heart in your throat. “please don’t get tired of me, joshua.”

he didn’t speak right away. just looked at you with that same steady gaze, the one that had always made you feel safe, even when you didn’t think you deserved it.

then, quietly, he moved closer. not all the way. just enough.

“i’m not tired of you,” he said. “but i am tired of watching you carry everything alone and then punishing yourself for breaking under the weight.”

you closed your eyes, as if that truth stung more than anything.

“i love you,” he continued. “and part of loving someone means standing beside them even when it’s hard. but it also means drawing lines when things start to hurt.”

you nodded slowly. “i want to do better. i’m trying.”

he reached out this time, one hand brushing yours, slow and careful, like asking for permission.

“then we’ll try together,” he said.

and in that moment, you realized something: joshua didn’t love the perfect version of you. he loved the real you, the one still learning, still healing, still holding too much.

but what made his love different was he didn’t just stay. he challenged you.

he reminded you that care could come with boundaries.

and that real love isn’t loud or dramatic, it’s the quiet voice that says, i’m here… but i won’t let you lose yourself either.

without another word, he reached for you, pulling you into his arms in a way that made everything else fade into the background. his embrace was calm, steady, and it felt like everything you needed, like you could finally let go of the weight you’d been carrying.

you buried your face in his chest, letting the softness of his shirt ground you, feeling his heartbeat steady against yours. he didn’t try to fix you. he didn’t ask for apologies or explanations. he just held you, as if saying everything without saying a word.

you pulled back just slightly to look at him, your eyes still a little red but softened by the warmth of his gaze. you didn’t have all the answers, and you weren’t “fixed” but with him beside you, maybe that was enough for now.

“thank you,” you whispered, your voice catching just a little. “for staying.”

he smiled, that familiar warmth in his eyes. “i’m not going anywhere.”