Growing pains:
You hear it before you see it.
A thud. A groan. A very dramatic, “Daaaaaad!”
You’re in the kitchen pouring cereal when Harry jogs down the hall, hair sticking up in every direction, shirt half‑tucked, looking like a man who has been woken up by the same child every day for thirteen years.
“What now?” he calls.
Porter stomps into the kitchen, backpack hanging off one shoulder, hoodie half‑zipped, face twisted in teenage agony.
“My legs hurt,” he announces.
Harry blinks. “Your legs?”
“Yes, my legs,” Porter says, flopping into a chair like a Victorian child dying of consumption. “They’re killing me.”
Harry crosses his arms. “You grew an inch and a half this month. S’what happens.”
Porter glares. “Well, I don’t like it.”
Harry shrugs. “Take it up with your bones.”
You snort into your cereal. Porter turns to you, betrayed. “You’re laughing at me?”
“No,” you say, absolutely lying. “I’m empathizing.”
Later that day, you find Harry sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. You pause in the doorway. “You okay?”
He groans. “No.”
You sit beside him. “What happened?”
He lifts his head dramatically. “Porter told me I’m embarrassing. He said — and I quote — ‘Dad, please don’t talk to me when my friends are around.’”
You try not to smile. “That’s normal.”
Harry gasps. “Normal? He used to hold my hand in public. He used to think I was cool.”
“He was six.”
Harry slumps back. “I’m losing him.”
You rest a hand on his knee. “You’re not losing him. He’s just… growing.”
Harry groans again. “I hate it.”
You laugh softly. “You sound exactly like him.”
Dinner is chaos. Porter is moody. Harry is moody. You are the referee.
Porter pokes at his pasta. “My legs still hurt.”
Harry pokes at his pasta. “My feelings still hurt.”
You sigh. “Both of you eat.”
Porter slumps. “Dad doesn’t get it.”
Harry throws his hands up. “I don’t get it? I’m literally the one who bought you new shoes because your feet grew overnight like some kind of woodland creature! I was thirteen once!”
Porter shrugs. “Yeah, like a hundred years ago.”
Harry looks personally attacked. You choke on your water.
After dinner, Porter disappears with a dramatic sigh. Harry leans against the counter, rubbing his face.
“He hates me,” he mutters.
“He doesn’t,” you say gently. You step closer, resting your hands on his chest. “You’re raising a good kid. A kind kid. A kid who feels safe enough to be dramatic.”
Harry huffs a laugh. “He gets that from you.”
You swat his arm. “He gets it from you.”
He smiles — small, warm, grateful. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For being here. For helping.”
Later that night, you find Porter sitting on the stairs, hoodie pulled over his head. You sit beside him quietly.
He sniffles. “I was mean to Dad. I didn’t mean to be. I just… everything hurts. And I feel weird. And Dad keeps trying to talk to me like I’m still a kid.”
You smile softly. “He’s trying. He’s learning too.”
Porter wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t want him to stop trying.”
“Tell him that,” you whisper.
You find Harry in the backyard, staring at the sky.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He sighs. “I’m a terrible dad. I don’t know how to do this. He’s not a little boy anymore. I’m scared he won’t want me anymore.”
You sit beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to know,” you whisper. “You just have to show up.”
Porter steps outside quietly. Harry looks up, startled.
“Dad?”
Harry straightens. “Yeah, mate?”
Porter hesitates — then sits beside him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t want you to stop talking to me.”
Harry’s breath catches. “I won’t.”
Porter leans into him — awkward, teenage, but real. Harry wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. You watch them, heart full.
Harry looks at you over Porter’s head, eyes warm. You smile. He smiles back.
And for the first time all day, everything feels right.
