The tooth fairy[13] arrives and leaves him handwritten notes. He learns how to add, subtract[14], and read. He rides his shiny bike down a country road with his feet off the pedals.[15]
I quit my job to do freelance[16] writing—everything from training programs to marketing brochures to essays—usually when the rest of the family is sleeping. There’s never enough—money, but now at least we have time.
Saturday nights are always family nights, spent at home. There are countless sporting events. He tries baseball, soccer, and falls for basketball. He wears superhero costumes[17], develops crushes, friendships, and fevers.
We get a dog. He loves this dog with all his heart. The dog loves him back.
One day his height surpasses[18] mine and, seemingly the next, his father’s.
He reads an essay by a sportswriter[19]. It lights a fire in him. He starts to write his own stuff, wandering into my office as I try to juggle[20] freelance assignments.
I feel privileged[21] to read his work.
He learns to do the laundry, scrub the bathroom, and make pasta, though he often professes to forget how to do all three.[22]
He turns 18.
On a cold and rainy Election Day we head out together to vote. After two hours waiting in line, he’s the only teen in sight. It’s not lost on him—by the next morning he has written all about it.
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