Proud Father V0 13 0 Easter Westy Apr 2026

“The bunny came,” Theo repeated, more urgently this time. He held up the Peep like a holy relic.

This was .

By 8:15, we were outside. Theo in his wellies. Me in last night’s hoodie. We walked to the little park at the end of the street, the one with the wonky roundabout and the bench dedicated to someone’s gran. Theo had a small basket with three eggs left (the rest already eaten or lost in the couch cushions). proud father v0 13 0 easter westy

I opened one eye. There he was: my son, Theo, age four and three-quarters (the three-quarters being vital). His hair was a bird’s nest of sleep and chocolate anticipation. In his hand, a single orange Peep—already slightly squashed, its sugar shell beginning to melt.

I sat on the floor, back against the sofa, and I wrote in a notes app I keep just for him. The note said: “The bunny came,” Theo repeated, more urgently this time

Theo’s eyes widened. He ran to the kitchen. A pause. Then a shriek: “He took ONE BITE.”

Easter, I’ve learned, is a particularly tricky build. Christmas has the big budget—trees, lights, a clear mythology. Easter is weirder. It’s more intimate. A rabbit breaks into your house and leaves boiled, dyed chicken embryos in a woven plastic basket. And in West Yorkshire, where the weather can’t decide between resurrection and another good frost, Easter feels like a metaphor struggling to happen. By 8:15, we were outside

I thought about my own father. He was a good man. A proud man, but not a proud father —not in the way I’m learning to be. He provided. He showed up. But he didn’t know how to say I am in awe of you without it coming out as you did okay, I suppose . That was his version. Maybe 0.4. Maybe 0.5. He never got the patch that unlocked emotional fluency.

For the uninitiated: fatherhood doesn’t ship as a finished product. You don’t wake up on delivery day with a gold master. You get an alpha—crying, sleepless, terrifying. Then beta: the walking, the talking, the tantrums in the cereal aisle. Each holiday, each season, each tiny catastrophe and triumph increments the version number.

“Daddy,” he said, stopping suddenly. “Why Easter?”

“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “Exactly like that flower.”