I’ve known my husband Mateo for fifteen years, and in all that time, I’ve never seen him afraid of anything. Not broken bones, not job layoffs, not even telling off rude neighbors. He’s the kind of guy who fixes everything with duct tape and a shrug. Steady hands, no nonsense, always moving.
But the day our daughter was born? He changed.
He didn’t even want to hold her at first. Said she was “too small” and he “didn’t want to break her.” I laughed, thinking he was kidding—he wasn’t. The man who once stitched up his own arm with fishing line suddenly couldn’t figure out how to hold eight pounds of pure sweetness.
But when he finally did—oh, my heart. He cradled her like she was sacred. Like he was scared the world might crack if he breathed too hard. I’ve never seen those big calloused hands move so gently. He checks her pacifier every few minutes like it’s mission-critical. Keeps extra socks in his pockets “just in case her toes get cold.” I even caught him whispering a lullaby to her last night—off key, of course, but it melted me.
I never knew this side of him existed. Before our daughter was born, he was all about speed, action, and solutions. Now, he moves like time slows down when she’s in his arms. It’s like he’s constantly watching her, measuring every moment, every movement, and it’s a little unnerving, to be honest.
At first, I thought it was just the novelty of being a new dad, and I let it slide. But then it started to feel like something more. Mateo had always been the type to take on the world, unafraid of any challenge, whether it was fixing the roof after a storm or standing up to anyone who crossed him. He was always the protector, the strong one, and I admired him for it.
But now, with our daughter, it was different. I could see it in his eyes—this quiet, consuming fear. Fear of something happening to her, of being the one who let her down. I’ve never heard him talk about his fears before, so it was strange to hear the trembling uncertainty in his voice when he asked, “Do you think she’s okay? She looks a little pale.”
“She’s fine, Mateo. She’s just sleeping,” I reassured him, but I could see it in his face. He wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t convinced about anything when it came to her.
One evening, when our daughter was a few months old, we had a small gathering at the house—friends, family, a couple of neighbors. Mateo was his usual charming self, cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. But when one of our friends tried to hold our daughter, Mateo stiffened and stepped between them.
“Maybe not right now,” he said, his voice tight. “She’s just been fed, and she might get fussy.”
I was taken aback. Mateo had always been the first one to offer up our kid for a cuddle, usually with a wink and a playful “She’s your problem now.” But now, he was protecting her like she was a fragile glass sculpture.
After everyone left, I decided to ask him about it.
“You’re not going to let anyone hold her, are you?” I asked gently.
He hesitated, his fingers nervously tracing the edge of the couch. “I don’t know, Maria. It’s just… every time someone else holds her, I worry. I can’t explain it. I just… I don’t trust anyone else with her, not really. What if they drop her, or hurt her, or—”
“Mateo,” I interrupted softly, “she’s fine. She’s a baby, not made of glass. You’re not the only one who can take care of her. You don’t need to do everything yourself.”
He looked at me then, his eyes dark with concern. “You don’t get it. I’m her dad, Maria. I should be the one looking after her. I’m the one who should be able to protect her, but… I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll fail her.”
I didn’t know how to respond. The man I’d married, the man who had been fearless in every aspect of his life, was now terrified of the one thing he couldn’t control—being a father.
It was hard to watch. I felt torn between reassuring him and acknowledging the fear that seemed to hold him captive.
A few weeks later, things got worse. Mateo started waking up in the middle of the night, checking on our daughter even though I had already done so. He would stand over her crib, just watching her sleep. He said it was because he was worried she’d stop breathing or that she’d get cold, but I could tell it was more than that. It was the fear of losing her, the fear of being unable to protect her from everything that could go wrong.
I tried to help him, but his anxiety was like a heavy fog, and nothing I said seemed to cut through it. I watched him slowly retreat into himself, unable to shake the feeling that something bad was just around the corner.
Then came the twist, the moment that changed everything.
It was a Saturday morning, and Mateo had gone out to run some errands. I was sitting in the living room, reading a book, when I heard the familiar jingle of his truck pulling into the driveway. But this time, something was off. He didn’t come inside right away.
I stood up, my curiosity getting the best of me, and went outside to see what was going on. I found him standing in the backyard, staring at something in his hands.
“Mateo?” I called, walking toward him.
He didn’t respond at first, his eyes fixed on the small object he was holding.
“What is it?” I asked, my heart starting to race.
He looked up at me, and for the first time in weeks, I saw something else in his eyes. Not fear, not worry—just a deep, aching sadness.
“It’s the baseball glove,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “The one I used to wear when I played. I thought I lost it years ago. But it was in the back of the truck, all this time. It’s like it found me again.”
I stepped closer, unsure of what he meant, but then I saw it. The glove was worn, the leather soft with age, and the stitches had started to come loose in some places. It was old, but it was still beautiful in a way.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s the glove got to do with…?”
Mateo shook his head, his eyes filled with emotion. “When I was a kid, I used to play baseball all the time. It was my escape, my thing. But then one day, after I got hurt—really hurt—I stopped playing. I couldn’t risk it anymore. I was afraid of failing, afraid of getting hurt again. But this glove, Maria, it reminds me of who I was before. Before I got scared of everything.”
I stood there, speechless. Mateo had always been the tough guy, the one who wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. But somewhere along the way, he’d started to hide from his fears, burying them deep inside. The moment he found that glove was the moment he realized he needed to stop hiding. He needed to face those fears head-on.
Later that night, after we’d talked and shared more about our childhoods, our dreams, and our anxieties, something changed between us. I could see that Mateo was starting to let go of his crippling fear. He wasn’t perfect, but he was trying—really trying—to be the dad he had always dreamed of being, without the weight of impossible expectations.
The next morning, he did something I never thought I’d see. He went into the living room, picked up our daughter, and handed her to me.
“You were right,” he said, his voice steady. “She’s not made of glass. And I can’t protect her from everything. But I can love her. I can be there for her. And that’s enough.”
In that moment, I saw my husband for who he truly was—not just the tough guy who never showed his vulnerability, but someone who had learned to embrace his imperfections and do his best, even when it scared him.
Sometimes, the greatest strength comes not from hiding our fears, but from confronting them, from allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. And in that vulnerability, we find the true power to love, to protect, and to grow together.
So, here’s my lesson to you: if you’re scared of something, don’t bury it. Don’t run from it. Face it, and let it teach you. It might just bring you closer to the ones you love.
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