"You take it easy," she said, her voice tender. "Mom will cook all your favorite dishes. Let your dad handle the milk powder. You haven’t been feeling well lately, so don’t push yourself too hard. When Elysia gets back from the hospital, she can take over looking after the baby."
As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something by my pillow—a small pile of hair. She quietly picked it up and tossed it into the trash, her movements deliberate.
"It's normal to lose hair," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Don’t overthink it. Just take care of yourself, and it’ll get better with time."
Her concerned nagging made my lips curl into a faint, indifferent smile.
"Mom, I’m an adult now," I said lightly. "You don’t have to keep worrying about me. Go take care of your own things."
When I was younger, I believed every parent loved their child this way—selflessly, endlessly. It wasn’t until I started school and casually shared stories about my family with my classmates that I realized how unique my situation was.
Their envious looks told me everything. For many of them, home was a place of "stick education," where discipline overshadowed affection.
But my parents? They have always loved me without limits. In 25 years, I’ve never heard them raise their voices at me, never experienced a quarrel that left scars. Our bond feels almost unreal.
My dad sat comfortably on the sofa, watching the morning news with a relaxed demeanor. When he heard my comment, he chuckled warmly.
"Your mother is like that," he said, his voice tinged with pride. "Even when you're in your seventies or eighties, you'll still be her precious son, the pride of our old Montclair Family."
Hearing this, my mother, standing nearby, bristled with mock indignation.
"And what about you?" she retorted, crossing her arms. "Who was the one so excited last night that he couldn’t sleep, staring at his granddaughter like he’d never seen a baby before?"
Caught off guard, my dad coughed awkwardly, trying to save face.
"Why bring that up in front of our son? I just... didn’t sleep enough because I’m old."
My mother rolled her eyes and turned to me with a look of exasperation. We exchanged a conspiratorial glance, both wearing faintly amused expressions.
Fatherly love in our family has always been subtle, hidden beneath layers of pride and humor. But their love for the younger generation? That’s never been understated.