My son. The phrase felt awkward and strange the first time I said it, and I had to practice it a thousand times. I started saying the words to myself the day the ultrasound told us we were having a boy.

Finally, my son was born.

The nurse came out of the delivery room, holding a tiny, howling human being wrapped in a white sheet, his small hands and delicate fingers shaking nervously. “Baby Corpuz?” she asked, looking at the room full of expectant fathers.

I stood up, holding my breath. She showed me my baby. “My son,” I whispered. The little guy screamed, “Whaaaaa!”

But in my heart, I heard him cry out, “Daaaaaaaad!” I don’t care if everyone in that room will swear they didn’t hear my baby say that. I called him, “My son,” and he called me “Dad,” and that’s that.

People ask me, “What did I feel at that moment?” I can’t even begin to answer. I grope for the right words. Joyful isn’t powerful enough. Bliss isn’t sweet enough. Happy isn’t intense enough.

After my son was whisked away to the nursery, I sat down and shut my eyes. But tears escaped them anyway.