"Show up more than you perfect"

My hands smell of sawdust even after a shower, and there are still lines of glue under my thumbnail. I built a small train for my son on the kitchen table with a lamp buzzing overhead and cheap wood that resisted my plan. I used to think being the perfect parent meant mastering every project, having every bedtime routine polished like varnish.

One rainy night he woke coughing and my toolbox sat idle while I held him under a warm lamp, the wood grain visible through the tear in his sleeve. He does not catalog my mistakes. He keeps the record of the evenings I chose him over plans, the nights I came home, the sandwiches I made when I could have stayed late at a job.

My son does not need a perfect dad. He needs one who comes home.