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When he had first opened the little box on the kitchen bench, he wasn't sure what to expect. Certainly not the positive pregnancy test sitting in silver crepe paper, with the little handwritten note next to it.
Andrew spent your entire pregnancy worrying, sometimes internally and sometimes out loud. He'd left his family behind. Gone straight. Gotten you and himself the fuck out of dodge, somewhere safe. But what if, inexplicably, one day, his children - your children - found out what he had once been.
You had held him in your arms, soothingly stroking through his curls as he had eventually broken down. Cried, because what child would want him for a father?
It had been hard to hear that. To hear him think so little of himself. You'd done your best to reassure him, but you knew that it had still been an ongoing fear of his throughout the entire pregnancy. That fear had only grown when your first scan had revealed not one, but two babies, later confirmed to be identical twin boys.
He had held your hand, reacted appropriately, but later as he held you tight in his arms, running a big, scarred hand gently over your growing belly.
"I don't know how to be a good father. Let alone to boys. What if I mess them up the way Smurf messed me up?"
You had scoffed, and as though the boys were rejecting such nonsense too, one of them had kicked his hand.
"We'll figure it out together." You had assured him gently, "but just not wanting to be anything like her means you won't be."
---
He had cried when one of the junior doctors placed his first son into his arms, silent tears dripping down his face as he took in the tiny little face, the balled fists, the head of dark auburn curls.
Andrew had brought the first baby up to you so you could kiss his tiny little head, even while you were still contracting, then allowed the midwife to take him, to put a little band on his wrist that read 'Noah - Twin A'.
He was just marvelling over the fact that he had a living, breathing son, when the same doctor asked if he wanted to catch his second born. He was afraid, but you gave him such an encouraging look that he agreed. The doctor guided his hands as his second born enterer the world. Identical to Noah, the same dark curls, but Finn was just a little smaller. The same way Andrew had been the smaller twin.
Later, while you slept off the pain meds you had been given to get through labor, he kept a silent vigil over all three of you, grateful when one of the overnight nurses showed him how to make up formula.
When that same nurse told him he was doing a great job, called him a 'hands on dad' and told him that you and his sons were lucky to have him, he smiled. Thought he might cry again.
And when you woke in the morning? The sight that greeted you was Andrew holding one of the twins in each arm, rocking them gently, looking more at peace than you had ever seen him.
---
As expected, at least by you, Andrew was an excellent dad. When one of the twins cried at night, he was the first one there. If you were in pain, he brought you snacks and heat packs and cold drinks as you needed.
He handled the diaper changes overnight, made the bottles, didn't remotely complain about helping you; you'd sit side by side in bed, holding one baby each.
He talked to them endlessly, more than you've ever heard him talk in your entire time together, more than he even talked to you.
It wasn't even about one topic, either. He talked to them about the weather outside. Described different sounds and smells to them. He talked to them about you; how much he loved you. How he had been determined to become a better person because of you, and later, them.
He told them about their cousin Lena. How he used to take her to the playground and the beach, and that he'd take them to those places when they were older, too.
Most often though, he talked about how he would never, ever, let anyone hurt them. How he would never make the same mistakes his mother had made. That he would always love them and protect them, raise them to be good and kind and all the things he wished he had been.
---
You don't remember hearing Andrew laugh before your sons were born. Not even when they were babies, really.
But now they're almost three, and they practically hang off of him all the time.
You hear them before you see them; Noah's loud, joy filled giggle. Finn is slightly more subdued. Then your favourite sound of all, the slightly raspy laugh that Andrew so rarely lets out.
As they come through the back door into the house, you immediately see the source of the amusement; each of the twins are hanging off of one of their dad's arms, swinging and laughing.
"How was the playground?" You ask as Noah bounds over to the couch, full of energy as usual.
Andrew shrugs; Finn is still holding onto him, so he picks your younger son up, letting the small boy sit on his hip.
"Good. A couple of bigger kids started to pick on Finn, though. You know he's a bit shy." He ruffles your son's curls; you can tell by his tone that he's upset, that it's perhaps bringing back memories of being that age himself, being picked on for being different.
"So we decided we'd leave early, but we stopped for ice cream to make up for it. Hence-" he waves a hand over at Noah, whose extra energy now makes a tonne of sense.
You smile, reach over and give his free hand a gentle squeeze.
"It'll be okay. He has us. More importantly, he has you. Someone who understands him completely."
---
Nobody is surprised when Finn is diagnosed with autism two weeks before the twins turn four. Noah also meets diagnostic criteria, is assigned level one, but Finn is assigned level two - moderate support needs.
You read through the report from the paediatrician on the car ride home, but it's Andrew who takes the lead on this. Speech pathology, occupational therapy. He calls around, talks about his son's personality and interests. Finds one who's good with quieter kids.
He takes notes at every appointment; the boys' specialists quickly learn that just because he looks intimidating, being so big and broad, doesn't mean that he's some switched off idiot. He asks questions, asks what you can do at home to support the twins better.
Noah doesn't need speech path or OT, so you usually take him to play soccer while Andrew takes Finn to one of those appointments. Sometimes you rotate, but Andrew gets horribly anxious if he misses an appointment, so for his peace of mind you let him go; besides, he can summarise everything that happened better than you trying to remember every single detail to report back to him.
He spends the evenings reading to both boys, sitting between their beds in an armchair reading the sort of books he would have loved to have had around when he was a kid.
Narnia. The Hobbit. He even does voices for each character, because it makes the boys laugh.
Noah usually grabs the book from him and reads a paragraph or two, but the first time Finn does it after six months of speech path appointments, Andrew locks eyes with you and you have to both try not to cry.
---
Andrew does cry when the boys start school. He did pretty well, he thinks, walking them into their new classroom with you, two carbon copies of him with their big hazel eyes and dark auburn curls.
It's a private school; Andrew barely finished his own education, doesn't want his sons to miss out on every opportunity to succeed in life, and god knows he has the money to afford it.
The boys look adorable in their tiny school uniforms; smart grey pants, cream shirts, matching grey blazers. Identical, the exception being Noah's glasses.
He watches you give each of the twins a kiss on the forehead, a big hug, before it's his turn. He hugs them both tight, ruffles their curls because even with a brush they're untamable.
He keeps his composure as you walk hand in hand back to the car; stray tears roll down his cheeks as he slides into the driver's seat.
"Hey," you tell him softly, squeezing his hand, "they're going to be fine."
"They're just growing up so fast. I can't believe... I just. You choosing me was incredible. But to have those kids love me? Look at me like I'm not a freak or a weirdo or some monster to hide from? I can't explain how that feels."
You give him a little smile as you reach into your back pocket.
"Well, don't be too sad about them growing up, love. We get to do it all over again."
Andrew gives you a quizzical look that turns to a shocked, brilliant smile as you place the little print out into his hand, clearly showing and marking a perfectly content, healthy baby to be in your uterus.
"Surprise." You tell him, barely able to get the word out before he's pulling you into a tight hug.
This time, he doesn't feel afraid of what's to come, or whether he'll be a good father.
And when, six months later, your daughter is placed into his arms, he thinks the final cracks in his heart might just have healed.