"Look at you, treacherous stairs," I muttered, glaring at them with a sense of defiance. The stairs were a looming threat in my home, a danger that I felt compelled to guard against constantly.

"You're not so sharp now, are you?" I'd proudly say, having just added another layer of padding to the table corners. In my quest, every sharp edge in the house had to be softened, every potential hazard neutralized.

At night, roaming the quiet halls, I'd whisper to the walls, "You'll keep him safe, won't you?" It felt like they were my allies in this silent vigil, upholding my mission to shield my son from harm.

Then, one day, as I was scolding the coffee table, my son stood up from the couch. He was much taller, his voice deeper. "Dad, stop," he said, looking at me with exasperation. "I'm thirty years old now."