The book was Made for Me by Zack Bush. He sat on the rug in front of their bunk bed. The baby padded over in her monkey-printed footie pajamas and climbed into his lap. The older three, each clad in a different version of mismatched pajamas, squeezed in tight together to see the pictures as Daddy read the bedtime book.
“You were made for me,” he read again and again.
And goodness, weren’t they?
They were made for him. They were made for me.
Look at that guy.
The daddy of my dreams. The daddy of their dreams.
He fights lightsaber battles and reads bedtime books, carries them up and down hiking trails and slices up apples for them. He kisses their heads and he zips up their coats, prays for their invisible owies and reminds them to use their words when they’re upset. He loves to see what they did for homeschool each day, he makes up fun stories, and he whispers in the dark to me about how funny and smart and creative they all are.
He was made for them and they were made for him.
And it was good.