A Fathers Ache
A Father’s Ache
For Dougie
I love you
with a force that splits me.
It is not soft.
It is not quiet.
It is thunder and ache,
an earthquake in my chest
every time you cry.
You are fire and wonder
mud-stained knees,
questions I can’t answer,
songs shouted into the sky.
You hold ladybirds
like they are sacred.
You hold your brother
like he might break.
And then,
there are nights
when everything unravels.
You shout,
you break,
you run from me
like I am the villain
in a story I thought I was writing
with love.
I give you everything I have.
And still,
there are days you throw it back
with shaking fists and tear-stained cheeks.
And I?
I break in places you’ll never see.
I ask the mirror—
Am I a good dad?
Did I fail today?
Did I shape this storm somehow?
I am haunted
by bedtime guilt,
by silence too loud
after you’ve gone to sleep.
I want to wake you
to say I’m sorry,
to say I love you
even when you’re wild,
especially when you’re hurting.
But I let you rest.
Because you are growing.
And growth
is loud.
And love
is holding on
through the noise.
I miss the tiny you
every time I see
the new you emerging.
I grieve with every birthday.
And fall in love again
with every blink.
One day,
you’ll climb without me.
Run ahead.
Build your world without asking me first.
And I will still be here
a father,
a witness,
a heart worn raw
by the privilege
of loving you
this deeply.
Even on the hard days.
Especially then.