Standing in a darkened room, swaying to an unheard melody, there is a little head resting on my shoulder, little arms at first clenched — then draped — around my neck. We sway to the slish-slosh-slish of the dishwasher.

He’d called my name out in the dark: Dada. And I came to find him. Dim light showed him standing at the railing, waiting, gazing expectantly into the darkness. Of course Daddy would come when needed. That is what the Daddy does.

I marvel at how big he’s getting, how much he’s learning.

How it is all speeding by so, so fast.

I hold him close as we sway, and he squeezes back. I know this will be the part that breaks my heart when he’s older, when he doesn’t want hugs and kisses from his dad anymore, when he’s a teenager and screams that he hates me, when he heads off to college, when he is a man of his own …

…and doesn’t need a father to gently rock away the bad dreams or lay him peacefully down to sleep.

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