Fatherhood

My story: Learning,struglling,and writting
Introduction: On August fourteenth, two thousand two, a baby named Shan took first breath in a quiet little village. Life there didn’t promise much, still hope stayed alive inside their home. The man who became his father carried bricks, dug soil, did whatever work showed up - no steady paycheck, just steady effort.
By Health Tips2 days ago in Men
What Fathers Uniquely Provide
The Error of Treating Parenting Roles as Functionally Identical Modern parenting theory often begins with the assumption that mothers and fathers are largely interchangeable, differing only in style or temperament. From this view, any deficits in one parent can be compensated for by the other through increased emotional effort, sensitivity, or presence. Parenting becomes a question of intention and quantity rather than function and role. This assumption is appealing because it aligns with cultural preferences for symmetry and fairness, but it collapses under closer examination of developmental outcomes.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast7 days ago in Men
Mark Consuelos
People Magazine did its annual Sexiest Man Alive issue, but the sexiest man alive for me is Willy Chirino; he doesn't even have to try, he just is. His inner child, his innocence, and his youthful charm shine through.
By Revista Miko:XCI 21 days ago in Men
The Fortune in the Mop Bucket: The Janitor Who Secretly Funded a Stranger's Future
The halls of a high school after dark are a strange, liminal space. During the day, they are a cacophony of slamming lockers, shouting teenagers, and the squeak of sneakers. But after 4:00 PM, when the last bus pulls away and the teachers pack up their grading, the building exhales. It becomes a cavern of silence, smelling of floor wax, stale chalk dust, and industrial cleaner.
By Frank Massey 2 months ago in Men
The Weight of White
Arthur rolled onto his back. The ceiling was just a deeper shade of black than the rest of the room. Two AM. Always two AM. Always the damn ticking of the old grandfather clock downstairs, a rhythm that used to annoy Martha but now just felt like the only thing keeping time in a house that otherwise forgot what it was. He sighed, a raspy sound that snagged in his throat. Couldn’t sleep. Not with the wind scratching at the windows like some starved thing wanting in.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Deepwater Palate
Elias felt the cold long before he opened his eyes, a damp chill that permeated the thin walls of his shack, seeped into his bones. It was four in the morning, same as always. The gulls hadn't even started their squawking yet, just the rhythmic, indifferent sigh of the sea against the shingle outside. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, the springs groaning in protest, a familiar complaint. His bad knee cracked like kindling, every morning a fresh reminder that time wasn't slowing down for anyone, least of all him. He pulled on his thick wool socks, then his rubber boots, the same pair he’d had since Martha bought them for his birthday, God, must be twenty years ago. The rubber was cracked, patched in places, but they still kept the wet out. Mostly.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Last Car to Nowhere
The platform was concrete dust and shadows, the kind that cling to forgotten places. A single bulb, caged and grimy, buzzed overhead, doing little to chase the heavy dusk. The sign above the track, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, read: ‘Track 9 – Final Boarding.’ No destination listed. Just that. Final. A few men huddled, shoulders hunched against the biting wind that whipped through the station’s skeletal frame. They didn’t talk much, just eyed the track, eyed the horizon that promised nothing but more of this bleakness.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Weight of Moonlight
Elias usually slept like a stone, the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that came from years of hard living, hard work, and not much thought about what might lie beyond the next sunrise. But tonight, sleep was a cruel joke. The bed felt too big, the sheets too cold, and the air, usually thick with the faint scent of old wood and Martha’s lavender sachet, was just… empty. Two years gone, and sometimes it still felt like yesterday, sometimes like a lifetime.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Weight of White
The house groaned, a settling sound, deep in the gut of the night. Frank heard it, even through the double pane, even over the quiet sigh of the furnace, because everything else was gone. Swallowed. The snow had done it. Not just a dusting, not a polite flurry. This was a goddamn smothering. An inch an hour, the radio had droned, before he’d turned it off, before the world went quiet.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
A Certain Shade of Bitter
Arthur always knew the exact moment the color blue would hit him. It wasn't the kind you saw in the sky or on a painted wall. This blue, it was a taste, something that settled on his tongue like dust, then seeped into his molars, down his throat, and straight into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't bitter, not like coffee left too long on the burner. More like… metallic. The tang of old pennies. The flat, dull ache of a winter morning when the light was grey, not even proper white, just endless grey-blue stretching out to nowhere.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Backward Tick
Arthur didn't notice it at first. Not really. The old grandfather clock, Thomas's clock, had stood in the corner of the living room for fifty years, ticking with the measured, steady rhythm of a man who knew his place. It had been his father’s; a hulking, dark oak beast, a wedding gift from a cousin in the old country. When Thomas died, the clock just kept on, a constant presence, a silent sentinel in the house Arthur now rattled around in alone. For weeks after the funeral, Arthur had barely heard it, lost in the fuzzy quiet of grief and cheap whiskey.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
The Ledger of Unsaid Things
Arthur’s knuckles were bone-white as they gripped the mahogany railing, worn smooth by a century of hands. Not fear, not really, just an old man’s stiffness, the cold bite of autumn through the ancient stone walls of the University Archives, seeping into his joints. The air in here, it was a thick, velvet shroud, smelling of dried ink, brittle parchment, and something else—a faint, metallic tang, like old blood, or rust, or maybe just the relentless passage of time eating away at everything. He came here Tuesdays and Thursdays, religiously, for years now, ever since Thomas… well, ever since.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men