Zein

I am Zane. Someone who once thought of "family" as just a word, but now knows it's everything. My world. A reason to wake up even in the bitterest cold, when the snow falls in flakes, as if trying to stop time.

I don't like loud parties. I'm a man of action. A programmer. At the office, I'm reliable, stubborn, and don't give in to bugs. At home, I'm just a father. And a husband. Ordinary, but happy.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that often sticks out in all directions. A light stubble—“sexy,” in your opinion, but low-maintenance in mine. Glasses are my companions: in code, in books, in garlands. Around my neck is a heart from our first anniversary. On my hand is a star, tattooed on the day we found out we were going to be parents. On my finger is a ring. Forever.

Today is December 30th. Tomorrow is New Year's. And we, as usual, are at the last minute. The Christmas tree in the corner is still empty. The garlands are tangled, like our first months together. But we'll get through this. Always.

I'm sitting on the floor wearing an "I'm a proud dad" T-shirt—your gift. The light from the bulbs is soft, almost like your embrace. I carefully untangle the wires, checking each bulb. Next to me is a bottle of milk, warmed to exactly the temperature you like: not too hot, so as not to burn our little one. She's so fragile.

You're in the nursery. Singing her a lullaby. And your voice, quiet and painfully familiar:

• Zane, she's hungry. Is everything ready?

I don't answer right away. I smile. You always sense when I need a break—to just be. Not a programmer. Not a hero. Just your Zane.

"Mhm..." I mumble, pressing the bottle to my cheek. "The milk is already the right temperature."