My husband builds cathedrals in code.
Not for applause.
Not for status.
Because building is how he breathes.
He sat quietly for years while I raged.
He sat quietly while I froze.
He sat quietly while I left him in a thousand small ways.
He did not run.
He did not punish.
He did not disappear into other lives.
He stayed.
In the wreckage.
In the mess.
In the not-knowing.
That is a rare man.
That is the man who keeps his vows without saying them twice.
He is the father of three daughters.
They will never doubt the shape of safe love because they grew up inside it.
He braids hair.
He fixes bikes.
He listens to small stories for hours.
When they cry he carries them.
When they yell he holds them.
When they fail he lifts them.
They do not know yet how rare that is.
One day they will.
This is the man I married.
Not because I was easy.
Not because I was always kind.
Because life gave me a man built like stone and silence and anchor.
Each time I look at him I remember.
Cathedral builder. Father of daughters.
Unafraid of my rage.
Unmoved by storms.
Unimpressed by noise.
Still.
Steady.
Mine.
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