Arriving a Son. Leaving a Father.

A snapshot of new fatherhood: a hospital bed, old wounds and sudden grace.

I’ve long rued the lack of great fatherhood books out there. But it looks like there’s something in the water, because 2026 will see some great ones hit our bookshelves. I’m biased, as I wrote one that I’m quite fond of, but another that recently grabbed my attention was Oliver Munday's Head of Household. This collection of ten short stories crafts a collage of modern fatherhood, and “New Motion” spoke to many of the themes we regularly touch on in the newsletter—the tension between the father you had and the one you want to become, how to manage inherited belief systems with your chosen family, and how your worldview shifts on becoming a father.

I’m delighted to share it with you all. If this floats your boat, there’s plenty more in the book, which is available now on Amazon, Bookshop.org, and in your favourite local indie bookstore.

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Illustration by Oliver Munday

Their room was bright when Chris woke, light filled, and the window’s warmth reached him on the couch. Mitzi cradled Amos on her hospital bed. Some color had returned to her face.

“How are you feeling?” Chris squinted. Waking up again to see Amos, their son, only two days old, was miraculous.

“I feel reborn,” she said. “God—I was tired.” She rotated Amos to face Chris and gently held him up. “Can you believe this little creature?”

Chris rose and came over to kiss the top of Mitzi’s head. A single gray strand of hair sparkled beneath his lip. Despite her having slept only a few hours, her eyes were lively. Just days before, Chris had taken a picture of Mitzi, standing at the open window of their apartment. Her belly appeared to have the power to bend whatever was around it, including the window’s protective bars.

“Your dad texted,” she said.

“Texted you?”

Mitzi nodded. “He was just checking in.”

Mitzi had a soft spot for his dad, but Chris and Mitzi had agreed to get through the birth alone. No friends, no family. Meaning with as much ease and calm as possible. (Due to several large fibroids near her uterus, Mitzi had a cesarean, which made the process more manageable; it removed many of the unknowns and made her feel in control.) They both considered themselves mildly estranged from their immediate families, and the last time they’d seen Chris’s dad, at the baby shower two months before, it had been something of a disaster. He’d had a little too much to drink, was a little too adamantly pressing to pay the remainder of the tab at the beer garden, trying to prove himself. A shouting match had ensued, and Chris’s dad had stormed off. Leaving Chris mortified.

“He’s here,” Chris said. “I didn’t tell you before. I thought I could hold him off.”

“In the city?” She looked down at Amos, who burbled.

Chris nodded. Despite Chris having told his dad that they’d see him in a few days, he’d come to the city anyway. I’m around, he’d texted, which always gave Chris the impression that his dad was somehow everywhere, hovering.

“Maybe he should give us a ride home?”

Chris pictured himself hunched over and weeping in the empty hospital cafeteria the night before. He’d been in such a state that he’d almost called his dad.

“I know it’s not what we decided,” she continued, “but, Chris—I’m tired. I’d rather ride home in the car with someone we know.”

Her eyes were wide, sincere. In the later months of Mitzi’s pregnancy, Chris had imagined himself behind the wheel of the car en route to the hospital—maybe he’d always had this thought—but they lived in Brooklyn and had never needed a car. Chris had called the Lyft at 5:00 a.m. to leave enough time to practice installing the new car seat before they left.

“Is he really that different than a Lyft driver?” she joked.

How many times had Chris waited for his dad to pick him up over the years? At practices, from after-school care. Chris’s mom, may she rest in peace, never drove. More times than he could count, a teammate’s mother would take him home, or he’d wait at school with the security guard, watching the cafeteria lights turn off, which always felt somehow illicit. Chris grabbed his phone. After several rings, his dad answered.

“Dad,” Chris said.

“Chris.” He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “How are you? How’s the babe?”

“We’re doing well. Last night was rough.” He wondered how much he should say. “But we’re doing better today.” Chris switched the phone to speaker.

“Hey,” Mitzi said.

“Mitz, how are you, beautiful?”

“I’m great. And Amos is great,” she said.

“Wait a beat before calling me Grandpa, will you? I’m fragile.”

Mitzi laughed.

Chris rolled his eyes. “We were thinking it’d be good to get home with some relative ease,” he said. “Would you be able to give us a ride back to Brooklyn?”

“What happened to all the going-it-alone stuff?”

Mitzi pursed her lips.

“It’s fine, never mind,” Chris said. “We’ll just—”

“Of course,” his dad said. “I’d be happy to, just let me know what time and I’ll be there.”

Later that morning, as they started to pack, Chris placed Amos in the car seat for practice and fastened the belt, taking care not to snag his son in the buckle. He seesawed the seat with his toes. Amos raised an arm and curled his fingers. He was so small—five pounds, nine ounces—that the sleeves of his onesie covered his hands. The first thing that Chris had learned about his son was that he didn’t like to be still. Only movement kept him calm. Chris’s hips and quads felt sore from endless bouncing.

“It would be cute if he called you Papa,” Mitzi said. She wore a gray sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants. She moved tentatively.

“You’ve been giving me papa vibes these last few days.” She flicked her eyebrows.

Papa, he repeated in his mind several times.

“I can’t wait to nest with you two,” she said. “I’m so happy we’re going home.”

The lobby was bustling as they left. People smiled and cooed at Amos. The car seat hardly felt heavier with him in it. Mitzi walked slowly but ably, grateful to be out of their room. Outside, cabs were backed up approaching the entrance, and for a moment Chris was relieved not to be riding in one.

“Can we wait outside?” Mitzi rose up on her toes. “I’m dying for fresh air.”

When they walked through the revolving door, the outside world seemed to rush at them. New York was a merciless grid. Amos rested beneath the canopy of his blanket. On the pavement, Chris flattened the duffel bag and made a cushion for the car seat so Amos wouldn’t be on the ground. Chris kneeled beside him, gazing at the street from his line of sight.

“Will you wrap the extra blanket around him?” Mitzi asked. “I can’t believe he’s outside, finally in the world.”

Chris got Amos snug and checked his phone: 10:12. His dad was late, of course. He wondered how long a grace period he should afford him before hailing one of the many waiting cabs. Amos started to fuss; Chris rocked the seat back and forth. Mitzi stepped closer to them, and Chris carefully rubbed her back.

He scanned the street. Idling at the light was his dad’s prized old Audi A4. The exhaust rose above the car’s roof. He remembered when he was eleven and they’d come to Manhattan for an auto show, his dad commenting obsessively on the Audi’s mileage. Chris’s car sickness had built steadily. His dad told him to make like a dog and stick his head out the window to get some fresh air.

The light changed and Chris felt tense. His arms were tired from the rocking. The car’s fumes were strong when his dad pulled up. Chris lifted Amos and turned him away to shield him. Chris’s dad hopped out of the car in a beaten suede jacket, tortoiseshell sunglasses propped on his head. Apart from his cameo at the baby shower, it had been nine months since Chris had seen him. He and Chris didn’t hug, but his dad squeezed the top of his shoulder before giving Mitzi a kiss on the cheek.

“Where’s my little grandbaby-boy?” He searched Amos’s face.

Chris opened the back door, and the clicking sound and the leather’s roasted smell triggered more nostalgia. Weekends searching dealerships for vintage parts—radio knobs and console covers—Genesis blaring from the speakers. Chris’s boredom never seemed to register. His dad still didn’t get that Chris didn’t give a shit about cars.

Chris realized then that someone needed to hold Amos while the seat was installed. Mitzi wasn’t strong enough yet to hold him while standing.

“I’ve got it,” his dad said.

“No, I’ll do it,” Chris said.

His dad peeked around the back of the car seat. “I wouldn’t know where to begin with this new age gadget. Let me hold him while you do your thing, Pops.”

Chris looked at Amos.

His dad noticed his hesitation and smirked. “I’ve done this all before, you know?” he said. “That’s the only reason you’re able to do it.”

Chris handed Amos over, lowering him into the cradle of his father’s arms. He was nervous to pull away. Chris’s dad started whispering something to Amos, and Chris watched them for a minute before belting in the car seat.

By the time they reached the FDR Drive, Amos had fallen asleep. Chris and Mitzi sat together with Amos in the back. They held hands across the car seat, its sloped edges plump with foam. Mitzi’s palm grew warm in Chris’s as he stared from the car window at the river. He thought of the operation the day before last—when he pushed through the door to see Mitzi lying still on the table, halved by a gray curtain. Her eyes searched him as he pulled his chair in close. He told her it would all be OK, that she was doing great. The doctor came over to their side of the table with her large vintage glasses and deadpan demeanor (she was their least favorite among the trio) and asked whether or not they wanted to drop the curtain to see the operation. Mitzi had said she’d make a game-time decision, and Chris was ultimately relieved not to witness the gore. When the doctor said they were about to pull the baby free, Mitzi renewed her grip on Chris’s hand; he tensed his body as if it might anchor her. He could feel the doctor pulling, and Mitzi seemed almost like an extension of him, the densest garment that had snagged on some corner and was being tugged free. Tears slid down Mitzi’s cheeks. He told her she was almost there, though he didn’t know if it was true until he did. Until they both did. The baby, their son, was only his screams. A wailing sound filled the room and poured deep down into their chests.

When they passed their exit on the Prospect Expressway, Chris’s stomach dropped. “Dad, that was us. I told you twenty-six.”

He smiled in the rearview. “I know. I’m just making a quick pit stop.”

It seemed like a joke. Chris’s heart beat steadily, a slow, mocking laugh. Mitzi squeezed his hand.

“You’re kidding,” Chris said. “We just want to get home.”

“I figured I had time to sneak it in before I drop you off.”

“Jesus, Dad. Make things simple for once.”

“It’s not far out of the way, I swear,” he said. “I found this Audi parts dealer on eBay. He has the shifter knob and fog lights. Both!”

“Car parts? You’re not fucking serious.”

“I set this up before I knew I’d be driving you home. It will only take a sec.”

Traffic began to slow. Chris watched his dad’s hand resting casually on the gearshift. Trembling. Chris wanted to scream. He remembered the hot parking lot where he’d learned to drive stick shift the summer after junior year of high school. His mom had come with them, whooping from the grass as Chris, haltingly, got the hang of it. His dad had been proud of him. Chris knew his dad had been lonely—despite his dad not letting on—in the five years since his mom passed, but he’d just gotten more insufferable. He was only interested in his car, slowly rebuilding its engine after work and on the weekends and sending Chris pictures of pipes and wires he couldn’t fully differentiate.

“How long before you get back in the ring?” Chris’s dad asked Mitzi.

“Ooof,” she said. “I haven’t even thought about it.” Mitzi had started boxing the year before she’d gotten pregnant, working with a trainer in the park and at a boxing gym in Bay Ridge. Chris had a video of her on his phone, sparring with her eight-month-round belly, her punches still swift and sharp.

“You ever get out there and spar with her, Chris?”

“She’d whoop me,” Chris said. “I’m smarter than that.”

“Yeah—my money’s on Mitz,” his dad said.

The traffic built steadily. Despite this, Chris’s dad switched lanes several times, as if he might thread his way through it. Chris rested his head against the window. He worried that Amos would start crying if they came to a stop.

A second later Chris’s window began rolling down. Chris startled, jerking his head away. The air whipped in. He pressed the button, but the child lock was on. “Roll it up,” he said to his father, frustrated. “The noise.”

“Thought you might need some air, sheesh.”

Chris’s dad eyed him in the rearview.

“Mitz, you know how he gets.”

Mitzi reached over to Chris and palmed his forearm. It’s OK, she mouthed.

“Your mom used to send me out for drives to get you to sleep,” he said. “You were so stubborn.”

Mitzi lifted the blanket up to check on Amos, who was still asleep. The blanket’s gossamer quality betrayed the heavy frustration it had already caused Chris. Failing to properly swaddle Amos had nearly broken him the first night. He’d been trying to let Mitzi sleep, but Amos kept fussing, crying. The younger nurse, with a streak of blue in her hair, had brought Chris a swaddle blanket with a Velcro strap that changed everything. Chris had looked haggard enough that she offered to take Amos to the nursery so he could sleep. He wasn’t ready to go back in the room, though, so he took the elevator downstairs to the lobby, followed signs for the cafeteria. The kitchen was closed, but coffee and a few packaged snacks were available. He didn’t want to face a choice then. To be so unsure of his abilities in a situation of such permanence—he wanted to be told what to do. He sat at a long empty table and pulled out his phone. Instead of dialing, he looked down at the floor, the speckled linoleum blurring and coming into focus.

Chris’s dad parked outside of a small white house. He grabbed his wallet from the glove compartment. “Hang tight,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

When he got to the door, a man with a maroon baseball hat answered and they disappeared inside.

“I’m sorry I suggested this,” Mitzi said.

“It’s not your fault—he’s completely oblivious. He couldn’t have done this later?”

“I know,” she said. “It’s crazy.”

“He’s so fucking selfish—this is exactly why I didn’t want him involved.” Chris was almost yelling, and Amos started to cry. Chris peeled back the blanket, feeling foolish for allowing himself to get worked up, for letting it affect Amos. He tried to rock the seat, to get Amos back to sleep, but there wasn’t much give with the seat belt. He grabbed the edge and violently shook the car seat.

“Stop, Chris,” Mitzi said.

He didn’t listen.

“Please, just calm down.”

He couldn’t take the sound of saliva quivering in Amos’s throat, the rattle. He undid the buckle and scooped Amos out. Mitzi looked away, out the window toward the house, as he opened the door and got out. Chris cradled Amos’s head on his shoulder, the timbre of the little cries tickling the wax in Chris’s ears. He wrapped his son in the blanket and tucked the long stray corner into the front, only to see it come undone as he lifted Amos. The blanket fell to the sidewalk. Amos cried louder. Chris bounced, bounced more deeply still, and dipped to snatch the blanket from the ground with the tips of his fingers. He squeezed Amos hard against his body in frustration. He realized suddenly the danger of what he’d just done. They’d been warned repeatedly in class about curtailing these spontaneous bursts of aggression. His heart pounded and his eyes watered. Amos cried anew, the reverberations from his cries like different sorts of cries that might amount to an infinite sound. Chris walked further up the block. Sweat pricked the crown of his head. His calves strained. The wind blew across them. Above him, a cloud quickly made way for the sun. He started to sway. Amos was calming, he could feel it. He’d be OK once they were back on the road. Chris continued up the sidewalk, away from the car, his dad. The sun’s warmth soothed his neck and shoulders. He turned away to shield his son from it. Once they reached the corner, Chris closed his eyes to try to settle his heart rate. For a moment all was calm.

After several minutes, he took a deep breath and walked back to the car. His dad was leaving the house. He was carrying a white plastic bag and sporting a grin.

“I got something for you,” he said.

“Oh?” Chris said wryly.

Mitzi got out of the car and took Amos.

“For you three, actually.” His dad held up a single key hanging from a leather key chain. It twisted slowly in the air. Chris and Mitzi looked at each other, bewildered. “She’s right over here.” He walked several cars away to a small white Audi that Chris knew was an A2. “Not quite vintage yet, but there’s only fifty thousand miles on it. I hope you’ll add some coming to visit me.”

Chris was stunned. He’d never expected to own a car in New York—never expected to own a car at all. The parking was brutal near their building. It didn’t feel like a gift. “Dad—you didn’t have to do this.”

Mitzi walked over and hugged Chris’s dad. “I can’t believe it.” She spoke softly to Amos then. “What do you think, bud? Our family car.”

Chris rubbed his face, shocked that he’d be driving a car home. As his dad popped the trunk, Amos turned and stared at Chris. His tiny eyes looked shifty. Chris felt like he saw a flash of personality, of attitude, and almost laughed. He stepped in close, looking at the deep, unspeakable blue of Amos’s pupils. The dark eddies of his hair and the creases in his delicate little face as if all freshly scored. Chris’s son. Many years later, Amos would sit in the passenger seat, his hair mussed by the highway wind.

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Something entirely different this week. Thanks, Oliver.

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