When my daughter was about 10, my husband, who is not her biological father, moved into our house. After about 6 months, I was working and they were home hanging out and she got her first period. I’d briefly had a couple of small discussions with her, enough that she knew what was happening. But she was pretty unsure of what to do.

So he handed her some toilet paper, told her the basic girl trick of putting it in her underwear, and took her to the store. He helped her pick out some pads, detoured to the ice cream, chocolate, chips, and the bakery section and picked up junior painkillers, just in case. They settled in on the sofa he explained the basics of how to use the pads. He made a hot water bottle for her, popped her dirty clothes in the washer to soak. Then they snuggled and she talked about it, and they googled answers if he didn’t have them. I came home to them having a nap on the sofa, looking like a slumber party exploded, and a happy child. This is probably one of the moments I love him for the most.