The Joys of Today

John stood in the kitchen, the familiar crisp crunch of the apple filling the quiet morning air. It was almost soothing, the way the fruit seemed to ground him. But even as he savored the sweetness, the sharp aftertaste of regret lingered. He couldn't shake it. Couldn't escape the lingering question: Would he ever measure up to the man Papa wanted him to be?

A soft shuffle of small feet broke his reverie. He turned just as his daughters, Hope and Grace, appeared in the doorway, eyes still heavy with sleep, hair tousled from the warmth of their blankets.

"Morning, Daddy," Hope said brightly, her smile infectious even through the haze of sleep. She rubbed at her eyes and reached for a cereal bowl, already knowing what she wanted.

"Yeah… morning," Grace mumbled, her voice muffled by the sleep still clinging to her. She was always the quiet one, the serious one. John saw himself in her more than he liked to admit, though she was much more reserved. It was as though she carried a weight he hadn't asked for.

"Morning, girls," John replied, forcing a smile. It felt good to smile for them, but the warmth of his own feelings felt fragile, like it could be shattered with a stray thought.

"Hungry?" he asked, already reaching for the fridge to grab another apple. He handed it to Hope, then grabbed a second for Grace, turning back toward them. They took a bite, and the familiar sounds of munching filled the space between them, almost comforting.

The house felt different now. Not like the old place where Papa had raised him—the house creaked and groaned with the weight of years, a cold, secretive place. But this home… here, his girls were safe. Loved. Cherished. Things John had never known growing up, and he found himself pausing to study them both, searching for pieces of himself within their bright eyes, their innocent smiles. He saw his stubbornness in Grace's quiet, thoughtful gaze. His humor in Hope's easy laughter.

But there was something more, too. Something he could never give them—the need to survive. The guardedness that Papa had forced him to wear like armor. His daughters hadn't known that feeling, the fear of what might come next, the anxiety of living under the watchful eyes of someone who demanded nothing short of perfection.

"Papa used to be so strict," John muttered to himself, more to the kitchen counter than to them. The words slipped out before he could stop them, part of him ashamed for even voicing it. But it was true. It was woven into his very bones, the harsh lessons of his childhood, the kind that had left scars deeper than any belt could.

Hope looked up at him, her curiosity piqued. "Who's Papa?"

John's heart twinged, and for a moment, he felt that old knot in his chest tighten. How could he explain the man who had shaped him, both in ways he hated and ways he could never fully shake? He swallowed, looking down at Hope's bright eyes before answering.

"He was… my grandfather. A tough man. Hard. A man who thought you needed to work for everything, or else you didn't deserve it."

Grace, sensing the shift in his tone, offered him a look that was quiet and understanding, her eyes full of something like compassion. "Sounds like he wasn't very nice."

John chuckled softly, the sound hollow in his throat. "No, he wasn't always nice. But he taught me what it meant to be responsible. To take care of things. He showed me what it was like to be a man in his eyes. It wasn't always easy, but…" He trailed off, unsure how to say the words that had lived in him for years. "I learned a lot. Maybe more than I wanted to."

Hope chewed slowly, thinking, and then shrugged. "Well, you're not like that, Daddy. You're not mean." She grinned and wrinkled her nose. "I don't think you'd make us work all the time."

John's chest tightened. He forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No, I'm not like that. I try not to be." He looked down at the apple in his hand, as though it might give him the words he needed. "I guess we all do things a little differently, huh?"

Before he could say more, the soft sound of footsteps on the floorboards caught his attention. Eve appeared in the doorway, her presence filling the room in a way that felt both steady and comforting. She moved toward him, as though she already knew the weight in his thoughts. Her lips tugged into a smile as she walked across the room, brushing a kiss on his cheek.

"Morning, babe," she murmured, her voice still warm from sleep. "Girls ready for breakfast?"

John smiled at her, his heart softening just by her presence. She had that way about her, that gentle steadiness that made everything feel a little bit easier, even when things were hard. She had always accepted him, even at his worst, without judgment. And unlike Papa, Eve never demanded he be anyone other than who he was.

"Almost," he said softly, glancing at her. "I was just telling the girls about Papa."

Eve's expression changed, a subtle frown pulling at her brows. She'd always known how hard it was for him to talk about his past. "What about him?" Her voice was light, but there was an underlying tenderness, a concern that he might be going down a path he wasn't ready to walk yet.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking at the floor for a moment. "I just wonder… if he would've liked you, you know? You and the girls. He was so tough. I don't know if he could ever understand what we have here. The way things are now."

Eve was quiet for a moment, watching him with those eyes that seemed to see more than he ever wanted to reveal. Then she stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder, brushing her other hand gently along the back of his neck.

"I think he would've loved you," she said, her voice firm but soft, like she was trying to ground him in the present. "He would've seen the man you are now. The man you've become for us. He wasn't perfect, John. But you're better than anyone thought you would be."

The lump in John's throat felt like a stone. He looked up at her, overwhelmed by how easily she loved him, even after all the scars he carried. Her faith in him was a gift he didn't know how to repay, but he knew he never wanted to take it for granted.

Hope, who had been listening closely, suddenly piped up. "Yeah, Daddy. You're not like Papa. You're my hero."

Grace, her gaze soft and unassuming, added in her quiet way, "You're different, Daddy. You're not like him."

John felt a tear slip down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it away. Instead, he reached out and pulled both girls into a tight hug, their small bodies fitting perfectly against his. "Thank you, baby girls," he whispered, the words almost getting caught in his throat.

Eve, standing close by, reached out and rested a hand on his back, a silent offer of comfort. She kissed the top of his head as he pulled back from the hug, her hand still lingering on him.

"You don't have to measure up to anyone, John," she whispered, her voice full of love. "You're exactly the man this family needs."

For a long moment, John stood in the kitchen, his thoughts swirling. It wasn't just the sound of the girls' laughter or the warmth of Eve's words that calmed him. It was the realization that, for the first time in his life, he wasn't defined by his past. He wasn't bound by the rules of a man who never truly saw him.

He was his own man now. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.