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. »
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.
