The most important photo in our house hangs right above the couch. The glass has a thin crack in one corner from when I knocked it off the wall with a foam soccer ball when I was eight.
Dad stared at it for a second and said, “Well… I survived that day. I can survive this.”
In the picture, a skinny teenage boy stands on a football field wearing a crooked graduation cap. He looks terrified. In his arms, he holds a baby wrapped in a blanket. Me.
“Well… I survived that day. I can survive this.”
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I used to joke that Dad looked like I might shatter if he breathed wrong.
“Seriously,” I told him once, pointing at the photo. “You look like you would’ve dropped me out of pure panic if I sneezed.”
“I would not have dropped you. I was just… nervous. I thought I was going to break you.” Then he gave that little shrug he does when he wants to dodge being emotional. “But apparently I did okay.”
Dad did more than okay.
He did everything.
He looked like I might shatter if he breathed wrong.
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My dad was 17 the night I showed up.
He came home exhausted after a late shift delivering pizzas and spotted his old bike leaning against the fence outside the house.
