“I love you, and I will always love you, no matter what. There is nothing you can do that will make me love you any less.” This has been our goodnight exchange with Johnny for the past few years. It’s always followed by a goodnight kiss and a big hug—a not-so-subtle reminder that he can safely tell me anything, even if he knows I won’t like it. I repeat this phrase not for now—these are the years of innocence—but for later, when he’ll be navigating teenhood and beyond. What I tell him is absolutely true. Much like the universe—both infinite and expanding—my love is unconditional and ever increasing.

While I’ve been on the receiving end of unconditional love, having experienced it with my paternal grandparents and, more covertly, with my parents, it was only with the arrival of my children that I found myself on the giving side. They taught me how to love in a way that knows no bounds. In doing so, they unlocked reserves of love I didn’t even know existed within me. I first felt this with Johnny, when I held him alone for the first time. Initially, I didn’t recognize it as love. I thought it was simply the biological imperative to care for a vulnerable, dependent creature. But it soon morphed into love—unlimited, wonderful, and, most of all, without any baggage.

When our second child, Despina, was born, those same feelings were triggered again, though without the novelty of the first time. It wasn’t until our feisty daughter began showing her character that I had my first “new” experience with her. While Johnny’s temperament is worryingly similar to mine—reserved, bookish, emotional but not expressive—Despina is an absolute force of nature. Learning to interact with her has been an adventure. She is demanding, cheeky, cute, and fiercely opinionated, unwilling to yield to the “authority” of older children or adults. All useful qualities for a girl learning to navigate a patriarchal world.

I’m writing this as my smart, adorable daughter turns three. I want to capture this special feeling: the overwhelming love that heals and shelters me from the world’s ills. The workplace shitstorm. The sobering realization that we live in a corrupt country that might be beyond repair. The looming precipice of global meltdown.

But as I comb her curly hair after her bath, none of that matters. I get lost in the moment, watching her crack cheeky smiles in the mirror and insist on combing my hair in return. This feeling can switch on in an instant—like when I come home late from work, deflated, and open the door to see a toddler lighting up with joy, sprinting towards me to jump into my arms and smother me with hugs and kisses. Priceless.

Our kids don’t owe us anything. It was our decision to conceive and bring them into the world, and it’s our obligation to raise them to become autonomous and decent human beings. But even if there were a debt, it would be repaid a million times over every time they ignite this unique feeling of unconditional love.

I don’t know what the future holds. One day, they’ll become teenagers, and we’ll fall from their graces—toppled like the statues of Soviet leaders after the fall of the Union. Eventually, we’ll come to know each other for who we really are: flawed humans, with virtues and vices, free from the spectacles of childhood admiration or the haze of adolescence.

For now, though, I want to savor these moments for as long as I have the privilege to experience them and remind myself that it’s me who owes them, not the other way around.

This is part of a series of entries titled Fatherhood Diaries where I record thoughts on life as a new dad. Click here for all the Fatherhood Diaries.