‎Conversation with baby boy

The sun filtered gently through the half-drawn curtains, casting golden stripes across the nursery floor. A soft coo broke the stillness, followed by a high-pitched squeal of delight.
‎
‎Ryan looked up from the pile of laundry he was folding on the couch, grinning. That unmistakable sound belonged to his seven-month-old son, Leo — his little chatterbox.
‎
‎"Are you telling stories again, buddy?" Ryan asked, walking toward the crib.
‎
‎Leo beamed when he saw his dad, arms flailing and legs kicking in excitement. He let out a loud “Ahhh-ba-ba!” and reached up with his tiny hands.
‎
‎Ryan scooped him up effortlessly, planting a kiss on the soft fuzz of his hair. “What a morning, huh? Did you sleep well? Dream about dinosaurs again?”
‎
‎Leo responded with a string of enthusiastic syllables, a babbling melody full of stops, starts, and laughter.
‎
‎“Really?” Ryan nodded solemnly. “You don’t say. And then what happened?”
‎
‎They settled into the rocking chair by the window, where the father-and-son ritual always took place. Ryan liked to call it their "morning meeting." No phones, no distractions. Just time to talk — even if only one of them knew what they were actually saying.
‎
‎Leo loved it. His babbles came in waves — urgent and expressive. He’d pause dramatically, then burst into another string of sounds, looking Ryan straight in the eyes like he was waiting for a response.
‎
‎“You think the giraffe toy is secretly in charge of the crib?” Ryan asked, playing along. “I had my suspicions.”
‎
‎Leo laughed — a high, infectious giggle that made Ryan’s heart feel like it might float away.
‎
‎Since becoming a stay-at-home dad eight months ago, Ryan had grown used to the rhythm of Leo’s sounds. Mornings were for conversations, midday was for naps and soft lullabies, afternoons for crawling practice and music. He’d always been a quiet guy — not big on words. But with Leo, words came easily, even if most of them were silly.
‎
‎"Okay, let's talk business," Ryan said in a mock-serious tone. He grabbed a soft board book from the shelf and opened it to a page showing animals. “Who’s this?”
‎
‎Leo reached out and smacked the picture of the duck. “Gah!”
‎
‎“Very good, Mr. Leo! That is indeed a duck. Promotion for you.”
‎
‎He flipped the page. “And this one?”
‎
‎Leo squinted, then squealed: “Mmmmm-ba!”
‎
‎“Elephant? Not quite. But I admire the confidence.”
‎
‎It was in these little exchanges that Ryan felt the enormity of fatherhood. Not in the big milestones like first steps or first words — though those would come — but in the quiet consistency of showing up, listening, and responding to a baby who didn’t speak his language but understood everything that mattered.
‎
‎Leo tilted his head and looked at his father with wide, curious eyes. For a moment, he was quiet — unusually so.
‎
‎Ryan blinked. “What’s on your mind, little guy?”
‎
‎Leo reached up and patted Ryan’s cheek gently. Then, in a soft murmur, he said, “Da-da.”
‎
‎Ryan froze.
‎
‎Time paused.
‎
‎“Wait... what did you say?” he whispered, his heart thudding against his ribs.
‎
‎Leo’s face lit up. “Da-da!”
‎
‎It was clear. Distinct. Intentional.
‎
‎Ryan felt a rush of warmth rise to his face, and suddenly his eyes were misty. “That’s me,” he whispered, kissing Leo’s forehead. “I’m Da-da.”
‎
‎He couldn’t believe it. All the endless diaper changes, the sleepless nights, the lullabies hummed off-key — none of it had prepared him for how powerful this moment would be. It wasn’t just a sound. It was acknowledgment. A tiny voice reaching out, bridging a gap with just two syllables.
‎
‎“Say it again?” Ryan smiled.
‎
‎Leo bounced in his arms and clapped. “Da-da-da-da!”
‎
‎Ryan laughed, blinking away the tears. “You’ve made my whole year, kiddo.”
‎
‎Outside, the world went on with its noise and its rush. But in that room, time softened. A father and his son sat by the window, sharing their first real conversation. There were no fancy words or deep insights — just tiny talks filled with big smiles and even bigger love.
‎
‎Ryan knew that one day, Leo would speak in full sentences. He’d ask questions about stars and dinosaurs and why the sky changes color. He’d form opinions, throw tantrums, make jokes, and tell stories of his own. But this moment, this first exchange, would always hold a sacred place.
‎
‎Because it was the beginning.
‎
‎And sometimes, the smallest voices say the most important things.
‎