Proud Father V0 13 0 Easter Westy ★ Full & Full

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.

Easter Sunday, West Yorkshire – 6:47 AM proud father v0 13 0 easter westy

But here, in the dark, on the brink of Easter morning, I felt something new: not just love for my son, but pride in the person I was becoming because of him. That’s the quiet miracle of fatherhood. It’s not about shaping a child. It’s about being reshaped. Back to 6:47 AM. But this year—this —something clicked

Not pride in his egg-hunting skills (though he was a natural). Not pride in his cuteness (though, god, the wellies). Pride in him . In the person he is becoming without my permission. In the questions he asks. In the way he shared his last chocolate button with a crying toddler at the swings—without being asked. Not stuffing eggs

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.

That note read: “Theo – You are growing so kind. Keep sharing. Love, EB.”