Five years ago, my wife and I carried bunk bed pieces down the hallway and into Jackson’s room, assembling what felt like the physical symbol of brotherhood. Two small boys. One room. One nightly routine. One parent wedged awkwardly between a wall and a ladder reading just one more book.
That first night they slept together in their bunks felt monumental. I even wrote about it at the time because that’s what dads like me do when they realize a moment matters—try to freeze it in words before it slips away.
Fast forward to now.
For the past couple of months, both boys have been asking to “set up their own rooms.” Not demanding. Not dramatic. Just casually, the way kids do when they’ve already moved on emotionally and are waiting for you to catch up.
So today we did it.
We rebuilt the bunks in Oliver’s room. Jackson’s room got a solo bed—no ladder, no top bunk negotiations, no whispered conversations that definitely weren’t happening five minutes after lights out.
Tonight is the first night they’re sleeping separately.
(Unless you count the occasional 3 a.m. migration into mom and dad’s room or a friend’s sleepover—but let’s not ruin the narrative.)
I knew this day would come. I just didn’t realize how much I’d miss the old routine until it was gone.
There was something special about bedtime in that shared room. Reading a book while one boy asked questions and the other slowly drifted off. Turning the lights down and listening to them talk to each other—about nothing and everything—until their voices faded into sleep. Sitting there longer than necessary because once they were asleep, the day officially ended.
Now there are two rooms. Two goodnight hugs. Two light switches. And somehow… less noise.
I’m proud of them. Truly. This is growth. Independence. Confidence. All the things we’re supposed to want for our kids.
But tonight, standing in the hallway after tucking them in, I felt it—that quiet reminder that childhood doesn’t ask permission before it changes. One day you’re climbing down from a top bunk, and the next you’re realizing you’ve done it for the last time.
I hope they always remember what it felt like to share a room. To fall asleep knowing their brother was right there. To learn—early—that even when life eventually gives you your own space, you don’t have to do everything alone.
Because rooms change. Beds move. Eras quietly end.
But brothers?
That’s the part I hope never does.
PS: The fight for where Wednesday sleeps from now on has begun. Chalk up a night one win to big brother.
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 