My husband is the man who builds cathedrals in code.
Not because anyone asked him to.
Not because it’s easy.
But because he can’t help it.
He builds systems other men don’t even dream about.
Not for applause.
Not for status.
Because building is how he breathes.
This is the man who sat quietly;
for years;
while I raged,
while I froze,
while I left him in a thousand small ways.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t punish.
He didn’t disappear into other women, or other lives, or other worlds.
He stayed.
In the wreckage.
In the mess.
In the stillness of not-yet.
That is a rare man.
That is a man who makes good on his vows;
without needing to say them twice.
And he is the father of three daughters.
And those girls;
they will never doubt the shape of safe love.
Because they were raised inside it.
He braids hair.
He fixes bikes.
He listens to stories about nothing; for hours.
And when they cry; he carries them.
And when they yell; he holds them.
And when they fail; he lifts them.
They don’t even know yet how rare that is.
But one day they will.
This is the man I married.
Not because I was good.
Not because I was easy.
Not because I was always kind.
But because life handed me a man built like stone.
Built like silence.
Built like anchor.
And every time I look at him now, I remember.
This is who he is.
Cathedral builder.
Father of daughters.
Unmoved by storms.
Unimpressed by noise.
My man.
Still. Steady. Mine.