When Your Little Boy Says “I Like Her Back” – A Dad’s Real-Life Parenting Lesson

Two nights ago, I was sitting in the living room after a long day, scrolling through my phone while the kids were finally asleep upstairs.

As a parent who’s been in the trenches for over 12 years now—raising my two wild ones, Temi (10) and Ayo (7)—I’ve learned that parenting tips from books are nice, but real life throws curveballs no expert warns you about.

That’s when my phone buzzed with a text from my wife: “Babe, emergency. Come upstairs quick. Ayo just confessed something big.”

My heart dropped. I bolted up the stairs two at a time, expecting tears, a broken bone, or maybe he’d drawn on the walls again with permanent marker.

Instead, I found Ayo sitting cross-legged on his bed in his Spider-Man pajamas, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost, clutching his favorite stuffed lion. My wife was kneeling beside him, looking equal parts shocked and amused.

Ayo looked up at me and whispered, “Daddy, I have a secret. But you can’t tell Mummy I told you first.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Okay, buddy. What’s going on? You know you can tell me anything.”

He took a deep breath, his little chest puffing out like he was about to confess to robbing a bank. “I… I don’t like school anymore. Not because of the work. Because… there’s this girl, Lara. She said she likes me, and now everyone teases me. And I think I like her back, but I’m scared. What if she stops liking me? What if I’m bad at this… boyfriend thing?”

My wife and I exchanged a glance—the kind that says, Our baby is growing up way too fast. I felt a rush of emotions: pride that he trusted me enough to say it out loud, a pang of sadness because my little man was already navigating the messy world of feelings, and honestly, a bit of panic because how do I explain crushes without making it weird?

I ruffled his hair. “First off, you’re not bad at anything, Ayo. You’re seven. This is normal. Everyone gets butterflies when someone special notices them.”

He frowned. “But the boys in class said I’m a baby if I hold her hand. And Lara drew a heart next to my name on her notebook. What do I do?”

My wife squeezed my hand under the blanket. She knew I was about to launch into one of my “lived-experience” speeches—the ones I’ve given a hundred times to other parents at school gates or playgrounds.

I leaned in closer. “Listen, son. When I was your age, I had a crush on a girl named Funmi in primary three. She had the prettiest smile and always shared her biscuits. I was so nervous I hid behind the mango tree at break time every day so she wouldn’t see me blushing. One day, she came looking for me and asked why I was avoiding her. I mumbled something stupid about being allergic to mangoes—even though I wasn’t.”

Ayo giggled. “That’s silly, Daddy!”

“Yeah, it was. But you know what? She laughed too, and we became best friends. Sometimes the scariest part is just saying how you feel. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest.”

He thought for a second, then asked the killer question: “But what if she laughs at me?”

I took a deep breath. Here’s where the real parenting nuance kicks in—no sugarcoating. “She might. And that would hurt—like when you fall off your bike and scrape your knee. But the hurt passes, and you get back up stronger. Or she might smile and say she feels the same. Either way, you’re brave for trying. That’s what matters more than being ‘good’ at it.”

My wife chimed in softly, her voice warm. “And remember, Ayo, real friends—real likes—don’t tease you for being yourself. If anyone makes you feel small, that’s on them, not you.”

We sat there in the dim glow of his nightlight, talking for almost an hour. He asked a million questions: Do I give her my extra pencil? Should I write her a note? What if Mummy and Daddy tease me too? We laughed, we hugged, we promised not to embarrass him (much). By the end, he was yawning but smiling, clutching his lion tighter.

As we tucked him in, he whispered, “Thanks, Daddy. You’re the best at this dad stuff.”

I kissed his forehead. “You’re the best at being my boy.”

The next morning, he bounded downstairs with extra energy, backpack slung over one shoulder. At the breakfast table, he casually dropped: “I’m gonna tell Lara I like her drawing today. And maybe share my biscuit.”

My wife and I high-fived under the table like teenagers.

But here’s the unexpected plot twist—the one that still makes me tear up when I think about it.

That afternoon, Ayo came home from school beaming. “She said yes! She likes me too! And she gave me half her sandwich because she knows I love the chicken part.”

I was thrilled. We celebrated with extra ice cream. But later that night, as I was checking his homework, I noticed something scribbled in the margin of his notebook: a tiny heart next to Lara’s name… and another one next to mine.

He caught me looking and shrugged shyly. “I drew one for you too, Daddy. Because you’re my first best friend. And you taught me it’s okay to like someone—even if you’re scared.”

I swallowed hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. In that moment, all the parenting mistakes I’d made—the times I’d yelled over spilled juice, the nights I’d been too tired to play, the moments I’d doubted if I was doing this right—faded.

This little human had just shown me that the real win in positive parenting isn’t perfect behavior charts or Pinterest routines. It’s teaching your kid that love—in all its forms—is worth the risk.

And that, my friends, is the biggest parenting lesson I’ve learned in over a decade: sometimes the scariest confessions come from the smallest voices, and they end up healing your heart in ways you never expected.

If you’re reading this and navigating your own family chaos—whether it’s toddler tantrums, teenage drama, or first crushes—hang in there. You’re not alone.

Share your stories in the comments; we’ve all got a few “Lagos wahala” moments in parenting and family life. Let’s keep supporting each other. 💙