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Haruto climbed onto the couch, clutching his crumpled drawing. His brows were scrunched, lips wobbling between confusion and frustration.
“Papa,” he said, turning to Eiji first.
“Why everyone has a mama… but I don’t?”
Eiji froze — the pen in his hand stilled midair. Beside him, Ryota’s body stiffened. For a second, neither spoke. The rain outside pressed soft against the window, filling the silence that words couldn’t.
Haruto looked between them, fidgeting.
“Teacher said we draw family…
but my friends said… mine’s wrong.”
Ryota reached out, rubbing the back of Haruto’s small hand. His voice came quiet, rough at the edges.
“Your drawing’s not wrong, Haru.
It’s just… different.”
Haruto frowned deeper.
“But… who’s the mama then?”
Eiji’s throat tightened. He glanced at Ryota — and in that glance passed everything: let me handle this. He leaned closer to Haruto, lifting him into his lap.
“Haru, there are many kinds of families,”
Eiji said softly, smoothing the paper.
“Some have a mama and papa.
Some have just one.
Some have two papas, like you do.”
Haruto’s eyes blinked, uncertain.
“But… what if people say that’s weird?”
Ryota sighed quietly, pulling Haruto’s small frame into his arms as well, resting his chin on his son’s head.
“Then you tell them,”
he said, gentle but fierce,
“It’s not weird. It’s love. And love’s never wrong, right?”
Haruto looked between them — Eiji’s calm eyes, Ryota’s steady smile — and the tension in his little shoulders melted.
“Then I’ll say I have the best papas.”
Eiji’s lips trembled; Ryota laughed wetly, voice breaking with something that wasn’t just pride — it was relief, and ache, and the quiet promise of standing together against the world.
Eiji pressed a kiss to Haruto’s hair, whispering,
“That’s all that matters, Haru.
The rest… doesn’t change what we are.”
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