You'd Be a Great Father

Complete Story

The city lights twinkled in the distance beyond their bedroom window, casting a soft glow across the room. Frank and Christine had spent the evening at Emilio's, their favorite restaurant, celebrating their third wedding anniversary with candlelight and wine. They had danced in the small space between tables when their song came on, drawing smiles from other diners.

Now, in the peaceful hush of their home, remnants of the perfect evening lingered: the scent of Christine's perfume mixed with the faint aroma of the roses Frank had surprised her with earlier, while a trail of discarded clothes stretched from the hallway to their bed.

Christine nestled against Frank's chest, her breathing gradually slowing as they lay entangled in the sheets. His fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine, and she closed her eyes, savoring the contentment of the moment.

"I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

"I love you too," Frank murmured into her hair. "Best anniversary yet."

The room fell silent except for their breathing and the distant sounds of the city below. Christine listened to the steady rhythm of Frank's heartbeat, gathering her courage.

"Frank?" she finally said, her voice small but determined.

"Hmm?" His eyes were closed, a satisfied smile on his lips.

"I've been thinking," Christine said, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. "Would you- would you reconsider having a baby?"

The words hung in the air. Frank's eyes opened, and the dreamy contentment drained from his expression. He stared at the ceiling, his body suddenly tense beneath her touch.

"I thought we settled this," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I thought you were okay with it being just us."

Christine sat up, pulling the sheet around herself. "I never said I was okay with it. I said I would think about it."

"It's been over a year since we talked about it," Frank said, sitting up too. The distance between them seemed to expand with each word. "I thought when you stopped bringing it up..."

"That I'd given up?" Christine shook her head. "I was giving you space. I was hoping you might change your mind."

The perfect evening they'd shared suddenly felt like it belonged to different people, in a different timeline. The warmth that had enveloped them minutes ago had evaporated, leaving only the chill of an old disagreement they'd both been pretending wasn't there.

Christine reached for Frank's hand, but he pulled away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there, back to her, shoulders tense.

"Frank," she said softly. "You would be an amazing father. I've seen you with your sister's kids. They adore you."

"That's different," he replied, not turning around. "I get to be the fun uncle who shows up with presents and leaves before the tantrums start."

Christine moved across the bed, sitting beside him but careful not to touch him. "It's not just about being fun. It's how you listen to them, how patient you are. The way you taught Danny to ride his bike last summer-"

"Visiting for a weekend isn't the same as raising a child day in and day out," Frank interrupted. "Have you thought about what we'd be giving up?"

"Of course I have."

"We can travel whenever we want. Remember Iceland last year? The midnight sun, the hot springs?" Frank finally turned to face her. "We're finally at a place where we're both doing well financially. We can eat at nice restaurants, see shows, plan that trip to Japan we've been talking about."

"We could still do those things, just differently," Christine insisted. "Maybe not as often, but-"

"It wouldn't be the same," Frank said, standing up and pulling on his pajama bottoms. "Our lives would revolve around daycare schedules and soccer practice and parent-teacher conferences."

Christine wrapped the sheet tighter around herself. "Those things aren't a prison sentence, Frank. They're part of watching a little person grow. Our little person."

Frank paced at the foot of the bed. "You act like it's all going to be picture-perfect moments. What about the sleepless nights? The tantrums? College tuition?"

"Nothing worth having comes without challenges," Christine said. "But we'd face them together."

"Until one of us resents the other for the life we gave up," Frank muttered.

"Is that what this is really about?" Christine asked. "Or is it something else?"

Frank stopped pacing. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

"My father," he finally said, his voice barely audible, "was never there. Not for birthdays, not for school events, not for anything that mattered."

Christine's expression softened. "You're not your father, Frank."

"How do you know?" He turned to her, pain etched across his face. "What if it's in my blood? What if I promise I'll be different, and then one day I'm working late, missing dance recitals, becoming the dad who's just a shadow in the hallway?"

"Because I know you," Christine said. "Because you're conscious of it. Because you'd try harder exactly because you know how it feels to be let down."

Frank sank back onto the bed, head in his hands. "I don't know if trying is enough. I've seen what happens when a parent isn't all in. I don't want to do that to a child. I don't want to be responsible for that kind of hurt."

Christine moved closer to him, not touching him yet, but close enough that he could feel her presence. "The very fact that you're worried about it tells me everything I need to know about what kind of father you'd be."

Frank looked up at her, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of abandoned promises and empty chairs where a father should have sat.

"I'm scared," he admitted. "Terrified, actually."

Christine looked at her husband, his vulnerability stripping away the frustration she'd felt moments before. She reached out, gently placing her hand on his.

"We don't need to decide anything tonight," she said softly. "Just... think about it? That's all I'm asking."

Frank nodded, his gaze fixed on their hands. When he finally looked up, Christine could read his expression all too clearly - the fear, the hesitation, the unspoken "no" that lingered in his eyes. She swallowed hard, forcing a small smile.

"Let's get some sleep," she whispered, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

They settled back into bed, the sheets cool now against their skin. They lay facing away from each other, the inches between them stretched into miles by the weight of their unresolved desires.

* * *

The next morning, Christine sat in her corner office, staring unseeing at the skyline view. Her laptop displayed a half-finished presentation for the Anderson account, but her thoughts were miles away from marketing strategies and client proposals.

"You okay?" Diane asked, knocking lightly on the open door. "You've been staring at that same slide for twenty minutes."

Christine startled. "Just thinking."

"Must be some heavy thinking," Diane said, stepping into the office. "Everything alright with you and Frank?"

Christine sighed, gesturing for her friend to close the door. "We got into it again last night. About having kids."

"Ah," Diane nodded, settling into the chair across from Christine's desk. "Still a no from him?"

"He's scared he'll be like his father," Christine said, absentmindedly rearranging the pens on her desk. "And I get it, I do. His dad was practically a ghost in his life. But Frank is nothing like him."

"Have you told him that?"

"Of course, but..." Christine trailed off, tapping her manicured fingernails against the glass desktop. "Words aren't enough. He needs to see it for himself."

She stood up suddenly, pacing the length of her office. "The problem is that he's around kids so rarely. When he is, he's fantastic with them, but then he discounts it as 'just being the fun uncle.'"

Christine stopped pacing, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "What if he had more exposure? Not just an hour here and there, but actually being responsible for a child?"

"Like babysitting?" Diane asked.

Christine leaned against the edge of her desk, a mysterious smile playing across her lips. Her fingers traced the outline of something hidden in her drawer - a device so classified that even discussing it could cost her career.

"Not exactly," Christine murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She pulled out a sleek metallic device, its surface etched with pulsing blue lines that seemed to dance with an almost living intelligence. "This," she said, holding it up just close enough for Diane to see but not touch, "is something far more... interesting."

The prototype was the result of months of top-secret research at NeuroSync Technologies - a neural modulator with capabilities that would make most government agencies drool. It wasn't just a memory enhancement tool; it was a breakthrough in cognitive manipulation that could fundamentally alter human perception and experience. But Christine had a very sspecific use for it in mind...

"What is it?" Diane leaned forward, curiosity burning in her eyes.

Christine's smile widened. "I could tell you," she said, her tone playful and provocative, "but then I'd have to- well, you know how that goes." She tapped the device meaningfully. "Let's just say it's just what I need to convince Frank he'll be a perfect father."

The device represented a quantum leap in neurotechnology. Internal reports suggested it could map neural pathways, temporarily "resetting" a person's mental state to a previous configuration. Test results on lab subjects had been nothing short of miraculous, and utterly classified.

"You're killing me," Diane protested. "Give me something!"

Christine just winked. "Some secrets are better kept close," she said, sliding the device back into her drawer. "Let's just say that what this can do would make most science fiction look like child's play."

Diane shook her head. "You're nuts. But if anyone can pull this off, it's you."

Christine grinned, clutching the prototype. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, I just need to get through the day without losing my mind."

The rest of the workday passed in a blur. Christine tried to focus on her presentation, but her thoughts kept drifting to her plan. She scribbled notes absentmindedly - coloring books, candies, kid-friendly chaos - while her colleagues droned on in a meeting she barely heard. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, her stomach was a knot of anticipation.

She grabbed her bag and the prototype, slipping it into her purse, and headed straight to Walmart. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she darted through the aisles, tossing items into her cart: a stack of coloring books with cartoon animals, a bag of gummy worms, a pack of chocolate bars, and a cheap plastic tiara she couldn't resist. She imagined Frank's face when "four-year-old her" demanded he wear it. Smiling to herself, she checked out and hurried home.

Back in their apartment, Christine dumped the bags on the kitchen counter and pulled the prototype from her purse. It felt heavier now, its faint blue glow more ominous in the dim light. She set it on the table, staring at it as doubt crept in. *What if it doesn't work? What if it does, and I mess it up?* She shook her head, pushing the thoughts aside. This was for Frank - for them.

She grabbed her phone and texted him: Hey, when'll you be home?

His reply came quickly: 20 mins. Traffic's light for once.

Christine's fingers hovered over the screen, then typed: My coworker's kid is coming over. Are you up for babysitting tonight?

A pause. Christine was wondering what might be going through Frank's mind with her springing this on him at the last minute.

Yep, Frank responded. Got some coloring books and snacks ready?

Almost, she replied, her heart pounding. See you soon.

She set the phone down and sprang into action. She scattered the coloring books and candies across the living room, kicked off her heels, and swapped her blouse for a loose T-shirt and leggings - something a four-year-old might not question. Then she picked up the prototype, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the settings. The manual had been vague, but she'd watched the techs enough to know the basics: twist the dial to "4," press the button, aim at her temple. Simple. Terrifying.

The sound of Frank's key in the lock would come any minute. She took a deep breath, positioned the device against her head, and pressed the button. A sharp buzz jolted through her skull, followed by a wave of dizziness. The room tilted, her vision blurred. And then everything snapped into focus with a childlike clarity.

The woman who'd been Christine was gone, at least mentally. In her place stood a wide-eyed four-year-old, clutching a strange shiny toy she didn't understand. She dropped it onto the table with a clatter and looked around, her brow furrowing. The apartment was big and unfamiliar, the city lights outside bright and exciting. She spotted the coloring books and squealed, toddling over to grab one.

* * *

Frank loosened his tie as he pulled into the driveway, the quiet of the evening feeling oddly heavy. It had been a long day, and all he wanted was to collapse on the couch with Christine, maybe open a bottle of wine, and forget about work.

Too bad that Christine had volunteered the two of them for babysitting. He checked his phone one last time - Christine had everything ready, so this should be straightforward.

As he approached the front door, he heard a high-pitched giggle followed by a crash that made his stomach lurch. He fumbled with his keys, pushing the door open.

"Hey there!" he called, expecting to see a small child. "Everything okay?"

The living room was a disaster zone. Couch cushions were piled into a lopsided fort, a box of cereal lay spilled across the coffee table and floor, and glitter - where had that even come from? - sparkled in the dim light. Then he saw her: standing on their pristine white kitchen counter, barefoot, wearing a crooked plastic tiara and one of his oversized T-shirts like a dress, was... Christine?

His 28-year-old wife now looked at him with a strangely childish expression, holding a bottle of chocolate syrup in her hand, grinning like a child caught in the act.

"Hi! Are you Mr. Frank? I'm Chrissy and I'm four and three-quarters and I can count to a hundred except I sometimes forget what comes after fifty-nine. Do you want to see my drawing? I made it on your wall but don't worry, I think the markers are washable except I couldn't find those so I used the ones in your desk that smell like fruit!"

Frank froze, his mouth opening and closing as his brain struggled to process the scene. This was Christine - same wavy brown hair, same hazel eyes, same freckles across her nose - but her posture, her voice, the wild energy radiating from her was... completely, impossibly wrong. She giggled again, tilting her head like a curious toddler, and the chocolate syrup bottle wobbled in her hand.

"Christine?" he managed, his voice cracking. "What - what are you doing?"

She shrugged dramatically, the motion exaggerated and childlike. "Don't call me that! My mommy only calls me 'Christine' when she's mad at me. I'm Chrissy! And I wanted to play! OOPS!" The syrup bottle slipped from her grasp, hitting the counter with a thud before rolling off and splattering chocolate across the kitchen floor.

"Don't worry!" she chirped, preparing to leap off the counter with the reckless abandon of a kid. "Captain Scribbles says I'm a super good cleaner-upper!"

"No, no, no! Don't jump-" Frank lunged forward, but too late. Christine, no, Chrissy launched herself off the counter, landing in the puddle of chocolate and sliding across the tile in a gleeful skid, her adult frame moving with a clumsy, carefree grace that didn't match her body.

"WHEEEEEEE!" she squealed, arms outstretched as she careened toward the refrigerator.

Frank caught her just in time, grabbing her under the arms as she flailed. Chocolate smeared across the floor in a chaotic streak, her bare feet leaving sticky prints. She was heavier than a child, her 28-year-old body solid and warm in his grip, yet she squirmed like a four-year-old, giggling uncontrollably.

"You're holding me wrong," she said matter-of-factly, peering up at him with those familiar eyes now wide with innocence. "My arms are getting squished. Also, why is your face doing that thing? You look like my goldfish when he sees the cat."

Frank set her down carefully, away from the mess, his hands trembling slightly. This was his wife, his sharp, witty, organized Christine, acting like a preschooler. He stared at her, taking in the chocolate smeared across her forehead, matting her hair, even streaking the back of his T-shirt she'd commandeered. What the hell was going on? Had she hit her head? Was this some kind of breakdown? Or, his stomach twisted, had she done this to herself somehow? And why?

He spotted an envelope on the kitchen island, his name scrawled in Christine's familiar handwriting. With one eye on her (she was now attempting to make "chocolate angels" on the floor with her fully grown hands) he tore it open.

"Frank,

"I know this is going to shock you, and I'm sorry for that. I did this on purpose. I used something to regress my mind back to four years old, with no memories past that. It's temporary, I promise, and I'll be back to normal when I wake up in the morning. I needed you to see what I see in you: the most amazing, patient, loving man who'd be an incredible father someday. I know you doubt yourself, but I don't. Let yourself feel it, even just for a few hours. Trust me.

"All my love,
"Christine

"P.S. There are dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the freezer. I loved those as a kid."

Frank's hands shook as he reread the note. She'd *done this on purpose*? Regressed her mind to a child's? He glanced at Chrissy - Christine - who was now licking chocolate off her fingers, oblivious to the chaos she'd wrought. His wife, the woman who balanced their checkbook and debated politics with him over dinner, was currently a four-year-old in a 28-year-old's body, all to prove some point about his potential as a father. It was insane. It was reckless. And yet, a small, buried part of him couldn't help but wonder what she'd seen in him to go this far.

"Mr. Frank," she said, her voice suddenly serious, "did you know that sometimes the monsters under the bed can only be scared away by bedtime stories AND cookies? It's very scientific. Also, I'm hungry now. Do you have any green gummy worms with chocolate inside?"

Frank took a deep breath, shoving the note into his pocket. Whatever she'd taken, whatever this was, he'd deal with it. But first, he had to get his wife - his four-year-old wife - cleaned up.

"Chrissy," he said, forcing calm into his voice, "how about we start with a bath?"

She tilted her head, considering. "Only if there's bubble bath. And you have to do the voices when you read the story later. ALL the voices. Even the dragon ones."

Frank felt a headache blooming. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Bath time!" Frank announced, trying to muster enthusiasm despite the surreal situation.

Chrissy - Christine - sat cross-legged in the chocolate mess, finger-painting swirls with her hands. She looked up, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "I don't *need* a bath. I had one last Tuesday."

"Well, that's-" Frank stopped himself. Arguing with his regressed wife was pointless. "You know what has bubbles? The bath. You know what doesn't? Chocolate syrup on the kitchen floor."

She considered this, her grown-up face scrunching into a childlike pout. "Will there be LOTS of bubbles? Like, mountain-sized bubbles? And can Captain Scribbles come too?" She held up a blue crayon, sticky with chocolate, that she'd apparently been clutching.

"Mountain-sized bubbles and Captain Scribbles is invited," Frank said, offering his hand.

To his relief, she took it, her grip firm and warm - too strong for a child, yet her demeanor pure preschool. "Deal. But you have to sing the Bubble Monster song."

"The... Bubble Monster song?"

"*Everyone* knows the Bubble Monster song," she said, rolling her eyes as if he were the ridiculous one.

Twenty minutes later, Frank knelt beside the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, suit pants soaked, singing an improvised tune about a bubble monster who ate rubber ducks. Christine's adult body barely fit in the tub, her long legs dangling over the edge, but she'd insisted on a sudsy mohawk, giggling as he piled bubbles atop her head. Her laughter was higher-pitched than usual, her movements clumsy yet endearing, and Frank couldn't shake the dissonance of seeing his wife's face lit up with a four-year-old's joy.

"You're not bad at the Bubble Monster song for a first-timer," she said gravely, steering a plastic cup through the bubbles with her grown hands.

"Thanks, I think," Frank replied, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips despite the absurdity.

The bathroom was a wreck, water everywhere, bubbles on the mirror, the ceiling, but she was clean, contained, and happy. A small victory.

A splash hit him in the face as she slapped the water, squealing, "Sorry not sorry!" Her adult strength made the spray impressive, and Frank wiped his face, marveling at how strange it was to see her familiar features twisted into such childish glee.

"Alright, Captain Bubble Monster," he said, grabbing a towel. "Time to get out and find some dinner."

"I'm not hungry," she declared, just as her stomach growled loudly - a reminder of her adult body's needs clashing with her child's mind.

"Too bad," Frank said, wrapping the towel around her awkwardly, her height making it a challenge. "Because I was thinking dinosaur nuggets."

"DINOSAUR NUGGETS?!" She shot up, water cascading over the tub's edge, soaking his shoes. Her excitement was pure, unrestrained, and oddly infectious.

* * *

Dinner was a chaotic negotiation. Chrissy sorted the nuggets with intense focus, her adult fingers arranging them on her plate. "The T-Rex ones are too scary to eat first. You have to eat the steg-o-sauruses because they're nice. And they can't touch the ketchup because they don't like blood."

Frank nodded, playing along despite the growing ache in his head. "And the triceratops?"

"They go in the middle because they have shields," she said, her tone implying he should've known.

When she dropped her apple juice, sending it spreading across the table, she wailed, "Oh no! The dinosaurs are drowning in the FLOOD!" Tears welled in her adult eyes, absurdly poignant.

"Quick!" Frank scooped up her plate. "We'll get them to higher ground!" He grabbed a towel and his own plate, improvising a rescue to "Napkin Mountain." Her tears stopped instantly, her focus shifting to the mission.

"You're good at dinosaur emergencies," she said, munching a rescued nugget, her voice muffled but sincere.

Frank's chest warmed unexpectedly. "Thanks. You're a good assistant."

* * *

Bedtime was a battle. "I'm not tired AT ALL," Chrissy declared, bouncing on the guest bed - her adult weight making the frame creak alarmingly. "My eyes aren't sleepy and my legs need to run fifty more times and I forgot to tell you about Jacob who has a lizard named Mr. Pickles and-"

"How about a bedtime story?" Frank cut in gently.

"FIVE stories," she countered.

"Two."

"Four and I'll be super quiet."

"Three, and you close your eyes for the last one."

"Deal. But they need monsters or princesses who fight dragons."

He picked *The Knight Who Was Afraid of the Dark*, doing a scared voice for the knight and a booming one for the dragon as her adult form snuggled under the covers. By the third story, her eyes drooped, her breathing slowing.

"One more thing," she mumbled, voice fading.

"What's that?"

"Check for monsters. Under the bed AND in the closet AND behind the curtains."

Frank performed the check, peering dramatically with his 28-year-old wife watching. "All clear."

"They're scared of you," she murmured, snuggling deeper. "You're better at monster-scaring than anyone."

A strange pride swelled in him. "I'll be down the hall if they come back."

"Promise?" Her hand clutched the blanket.

"Promise," he whispered, tucking her in.

In the hallway, Frank leaned against the wall, exhausted but oddly fulfilled. His shirt was stained, his hair a mess, but he'd survived - and maybe, just maybe, enjoyed it. He pulled out the note again, rereading her words. She'd done this to show him he could be a father. Insane as it was, he couldn't deny the flicker of possibility she'd ignited.

He smiled tiredly. By tomorrow morning, she'd be Christine again - and he'd have a lot of questions. But for now, he'd proven something to himself, too. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this after all.

* * *

Christine stirred in bed, blinking slowly as soft sunlight filtered through the curtains. Her head felt a little foggy, like she'd just woken from a strange dream - vivid, colorful, and utterly ridiculous. But as she sat up and rubbed her temples, the memories began to slide into place.

The prototype.

The regression.

*Chrissy.*

Her eyes widened.

She glanced down at herself. She was clean - thankfully. Her skin smelled faintly of bubble bath, and her hair, though tousled from sleep, was damp but no longer sticky. The oversized T-shirt she wore was fresh, and the bed was in relative order. Apparently, Frank had managed to get her bathed and into bed without incident after the chaos.

*God, he actually pulled it off.*

She rose, padding barefoot out of the bedroom. As soon as she turned the corner into the living room, her jaw dropped slightly.

Disaster.

Couch cushions were still stacked in a lopsided fort formation. Crayons and coloring books were strewn across the floor like confetti after a parade. Glitter shimmered across the rug like fairy dust - *so much glitter.* An empty cereal box lay tipped on its side next to the coffee table, and at least two gummy worms were plastered to the wall. She took a step and felt the crunch of... was that an animal cracker? Probably.

Her gaze drifted toward the kitchen. A sticky residue on the tile hinted at a chocolate syrup incident, and there were faint footprints - hers, probably - leading from the fridge to the hallway.

Christine let out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Okay, Chrissy... you were *very* busy."

From the kitchen came the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of someone moving about. She followed the sound, turning the corner - and stopped in the doorway.

Frank stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, still in the clothes he'd worn the night before. He looked exhausted - dark circles under his eyes, a slight slump to his shoulders - but he also looked... calm. Steady. Capable in a way she couldn't quite describe.

He turned when he heard her, and their eyes met.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Christine broke the silence with a sheepish grin. "I'm guessing cleanup duty didn't end when I went to bed."

Frank snorted. "Nope. Although once you were out cold, things got significantly quieter. Less syrup-related peril."

She laughed, stepping into the kitchen. "I'm clean, by the way. Apparently *you* gave me a bath."

"Bubble mountain and all," he said with a small smile. "You demanded it. Also, Captain Scribbles was an essential guest."

Christine covered her face with a groan. "Oh no. I barely remember anything after the coloring books. Please tell me I didn't try to fly."

"You tried to slide," he corrected, pointing to the chocolate-streaked floor. "You succeeded... sort of."

She lowered her hands, smiling despite herself. "And you're still here. That's... promising."

Frank walked over and gently took her hands, his expression softening. "You were right," he said.

Christine blinked. "About what?"

"About me. About this." He gestured to the mess around them. "It was a disaster. It was exhausting. It was weirdly emotional. But... I didn't hate it."

She looked up at him, heart beating faster.

"I was scared because I didn't think I could be the kind of dad a kid deserves," Frank continued. "But last night, Chrissy - *you* - threw every challenge at me. And I didn't fall apart. I figured it out. I adapted. And somehow, I even made you laugh."

Christine felt her throat tighten.

"I think I needed to prove it to myself," he said. "And you gave me that chance."

She reached up and touched his cheek, her voice just above a whisper. "So...?"

Frank smiled, a little tired but entirely certain now.

"I'm in," he said. "Let's do it. Let's have a kid."

Christine laughed, her eyes bright with relief and love. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," he said. "We'll be the weird parents with bedtime songs and bubble monster voices and possibly glitter in the carpet forever. But we'll do it together."

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he murmured. "But next time you want to make a point, maybe just talk to me? No more experimental memory devices?"

She chuckled into his chest. "Deal. Probably."

Behind them, a crayon rolled off the couch and onto the floor.

Frank didn't flinch.

Maybe he really *was* ready.