I’m Jake. I’m 32, a dad, and the proud father of a three-year-old girl named Allie—the age where wonder hides inside ordinary things. She can spend twenty minutes studying a ladybug, then gasp as if she’s found buried treasure.
Mornings in our home usually start with her shouting, “Daddy!” like a victory cry, and in that moment, everything else fades.
Our days unfold in the language of pancakes shaped like giraffes, trips to the park, and pillow-fort kingdoms where she is the queen and I’m the knight.
It’s the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be earned—it’s simply given. All you can do is try not to drop it. For a while, my wife Sarah grew quiet. Not angry—just distant, as if she were living in another frequency I couldn’t tune into. One night after Allie had fallen asleep, Sarah sat me down at the kitchen table and said words I still hear like an echo: “I think you should move out for a few weeks.” She said Allie needed more…
