He doesn't remember when they stopped being his boys.
…Well, alright, perhaps they haven't – technically. But things change, people get older, and little boys grow up.
…They aren't really boys anymore, are they? They're men.
When did that happen? It feels like just yesterday, they were throwing food and weaving between dining chairs, as though in battle. (Perhaps it was, knowing them, the man thinks fondly.)
He doesn't notice the change until he sees the picture. It's been some time since they've had a real family photograph, and this one goes right on the mantle next to the last one.
The difference is jarring.
Round faces traded for set jawlines, tousled play-clothes replaced with tasteful suits, small fingers exchanged for skilled hands.
No, they're not quite his boys anymore. He feels a little sad.
…Yet, he's proud, too; probably more proud than anything else. His boys are men now – and good men at that. Yes, they might still be rambunctious or tactless or unprofessional, but they're also hopeful and gentle and kind-hearted.
They mean well.
And that's all a father could ask for, really: good children who grow up into good adults. Better adults.
…Yes, he thinks. He's done alright.