Before, my child always asked,
“What’s that?”
Every tree.
Every truck.
Every sound in the distance.
“What’s that, Daddy?”
Then it became,
“Why?”
Why is the sky blue?
Why do birds fly?
Why can’t I eat ice cream for breakfast?
Why do you go to work?
Why do grown-ups look tired?
The questions came like rain.
Relentless. Curious. Honest.
And somewhere in between answering,
I realized something.
My child is no longer just pointing at the world.
My child is trying to understand it.
Lately, something has shifted.
Now my child tells stories.
Long ones.
Detailed ones.
Sometimes dramatic ones.
My child explains what happened in school.
Who said what.
Who cried.
Who won.
Who didn’t share.
Sometimes my child pauses mid-sentence
to find the right word.
Sometimes my child looks at me
to make sure I’m still listening.
And I am.
Because one day,
the questions will slow.
One day,
the stories will get shorter.
So now, when my child starts talking,
even if I’m tired,
even if the day has been long,
even if the story loops three times before it ends,
I say,
“Tell me more.”
Not because I need more details.
But because I need more of this.
More of the innocence.
More of the small confessions.
More of the way my child trusts me
with those unfinished thoughts.
There was a time
when I was the one explaining the world to him.
Now, my child is slowly explaining the world to me.
And I don’t want to miss a single sentence.
So I listen.
Because someday,
when my child's voice deepens
and the stories grow guarded,
I hope my child still remembers
that I always wanted to hear more.