He had my smile. My dopey, lopsided, human smile.

I created a home in it. Three years later.

And in that moment, surrounded by hellfire and hormone-fueled chaos, with Satan crying actual tears in the corner and a literal demon midwife asking if I wanted to cut the cord with a flaming sword, I realized something.

Satan comes over for brunch every Sunday. He brings bagels. He still calls me ‘the imbecile,’ but last Father’s Day, he gave me a card that said, “To my son-in-law. You’re less disappointing than I expected.” I framed it.