That evening, everything changed with a single phone call. My wife’s voice trembled as she told me we needed to talk—really talk. At first, I thought it was something small, one of those little parenting hiccups we laugh about later. But as soon as I walked through the door, her expression told me it was anything but trivial.

She showed me the psychologist’s report from our son’s preschool. They had done a drawing test. All the children were asked to draw their families using a set of colorful markers. Our son used every color for everyone else—bright blues, greens, yellows—but when it came to me, he reached for the black marker and shaded me in completely. According to the psychologist, it meant he saw me as frightening, overbearing. A tyrant, they said.

My chest tightened as I tried to make sense of it. I replayed every moment I could think of—every raised voice, every stern look, every rushed morning when patience was thin. Was I really someone my own child feared? The thought gnawed at me. Finally, I sat down next to him, gently, and asked, “Buddy… why did you draw Daddy in black? Are you scared of me?”

He looked up with those wide, innocent eyes and shrugged. “No, Daddy… black is your favorite color. I wanted you to look cool.” And in that moment, the weight in my chest lifted—not because I was right, but because I realized how easily fear can grow in the shadows of misunderstanding. It was a wake-up call I didn’t know I needed, and it changed the way I listened, the way I spoke, the way I showed up—not just as his father, but as his safe place.