Every life
is a story.

We took sandwiches to the public lake. I sat on a towel, watching families carry bright boxes from the concession stand, certain my daughter was comparing their afternoon with ours. Then she asked me to help launch a fleet of boats made from sandwich wrappers.

We raced them along the bank until my shoes filled with mud. A woman walking past offered to take our picture. I almost refused. My shirt was old, my hair was a mess, and I did not want a record of a birthday I thought I had spoiled.

Years later, your mother found that photograph. She remembered the boat that sank, the ridiculous names we gave the others, and how I let her steer the car for three imaginary minutes while we were parked. She remembered that I had stayed beside her all afternoon.

She has brought the picture to the porch today, asking me to write the date on the back. I am writing this for you as well. I spent years trying to give my children more. That afternoon, without knowing it, I had given your mother something she would keep.