The unremarkable.

The predictable.

Breakfast at the same hour.

The same words at bedtime.

A man who is not moody, not surprising, not a source of weather — who is, day after day, the same steady boring thing, so that a kid can finally stop reading the room, stop scanning for the shift, stop bracing, and just exist.

Paulette taught me that the most loving thing I could offer those two was my own dull dependability, and that the flashy version of caring — the big talks, the promises, the emotional scenes — was mostly for me, not for them.

So I got boring on purpose.