“Daddy,” he said, serious now. “The bunny says I’m kind. Am I kind?”
“Daddy. The bunny came.”
But because I was finally, fully, present for the thing that mattered. proud father v0 13 0 easter westy
I closed the phone.
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. “Daddy,” he said, serious now
But this year—this —something clicked. The night before, I’d stayed up later than I should have. Not wrapping presents. Not stuffing eggs. Just sitting in the dark living room, looking at the empty spot on the rug where Theo’s train track had been. The house was quiet except for the central heating’s low cough. The bunny came