I did not come here
to be adored.
I came to be steady
when the room tilts.

To be the hand on the small back
that does not flinch
when the story gets loud,
or inconvenient,
or ugly.

I came to learn the weight
of my own shadow—
how it stretches farther
than my intentions,
how a single careless word
can bruise tomorrow.

So I choose my words
like glassware.
I carry my temper
out of the room.
I shut doors quietly.

Because children are always watching—
not for perfection,
but for proof
that power can be kind
and still be real.

I do not ask them
to hold my grief.
I do not pour my loneliness
into their hands
and call it honesty.

I tell the truth
without bleeding on it.

I apologise without shrinking.
I repair without demanding forgiveness.
I stand between them
and what I should have healed sooner.

This is the job:

To become boring in the ways
that make a life safe.
Predictable in love.
Consistent in return.

To be the adult
who stays.

Even when it costs me
ease.
Even when no one claps.
Even when it would be simpler
to look away.

Especially then.

Because childhood is not the place
for my unfinished business.
And love—real love—
is not loud.

It is the quiet, relentless choice
to be responsible
for the power you hold
over a heart
that is still learning
what the world will be.