THE INSIDE COVER

CUE: “ENDS OF THE EARTH” by LORD HURON

We went on a hike.

This isn’t a “we’ve always done this” hike because no one in my family enjoys hiking except me.
So, it felt like my son was willing to try something new, maybe to fill the dog days of spring break, or maybe because he felt bad that I was going to hike alone… again.

He walked just ahead, enough to feel like he was leading. I followed, pretending I knew we were still on the trail, which was really just confidence and a hope that he wouldn’t ask follow-up questions.

At one point, he stopped.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there, looking out at the hills like he had accidentally found something bigger than he expected.

And I almost jumped in.

That’s what I do. I narrate. Fill the quiet with awkward commentary, with gems like, “Look at that ridge,” or “Here’s a fun fact about hills…”

No one has ever wanted a fun fact less. Not even me halfway through saying them in my head.

But I didn’t say anything.

I just stood there and let him have it.

And it hit me, this might be one of those quiet firsts you don’t take a picture of.

And I don’t get to improve it.

That’s the shift.

Because it’s not just this.

It’s everything.

Soccer.
Girls.
Friends, new ones, old ones, the ones that somehow rotate in and out without warning.
Dreams.

There’s no order to that list. No ranking system. No, “this matters more.”

Because as I hear him talk in bits and pieces on this hike, all of it feels big. The kind of big that makes his world feel like it’s opening up. The kind of big where everything feels like it matters. Because it does. Even the stuff that absolutely won’t.

And my instinct is to step in on all of it.

To guide. To spare him time, pain, or embarrassment.

Which is funny, considering… I once told a girl I liked her by writing it in pen on the inside cover of her yearbook that I was in love with her.

Not pencil. Not subte, just Pen. Inside cover. Full commitment.

And the second I finished writing it, I knew. Immediately. Deep in my bones.

This was not a mutual feeling.

Not even a little mutual.

So I did what any confident young man would do.

I hid the yearbook.

Not strategically. Just… panic-hid. Like it might solve itself if no one could find it.

She asked for it back… I didn’t give it back.
People told me to give it back… I acted like I didn’t know what they were talking about.
I kept it hidden as if it contained state secrets, instead of a confession that was getting worse by the second.

Eventually, I had to return it. Because at some point, you realize what kind of creep steals a yearbook?

That felt like a tough label to carry into high school.

I remember sitting with my dad after the yearbook fiasco, looking out at the Intracoastal Waterway from a screened-in patio. Overhead fans humming, rather the kind that make everything feel like advice is about to happen.

And he gave it to me: “If you love her, set her free. If she comes back, it was meant to be.”

At the time, it felt airtight. He felt like the wisest man on the planet. Or so it seemed.

She did not come back, and I wasn’t exactly waiting around for her either.

But that’s not really the point.

The point is, he said something that fit the moment.

Not perfect. Not permanent. Just right enough for then.

I don’t remember him giving me much advice about girls before or after that. His life shifted not long after. Different priorities. Different chapters.

Which, in a way, makes that moment stand out even more.

And I think that’s what I’m starting to understand.

This isn’t about having a speech for every moment.

No.

It’s about timing.

Knowing when to step in.
Knowing when to stay quiet.
Knowing when your “help” is really just you trying to be part of something that isn’t yours.

That’s the hard part.

There will be times he needs me to jump in.

And I will. Probably a little too early.

It’s kind of my brand.

But there are also moments, like this one.

Where the best thing I can do… Is nothing.

Let him walk a little ahead.
Let him figure out what matters to him.
Let him have his own version of it, without me narrating over it.

Life is going to unfold for him with surprises as it did for me, and I’m learning that I don’t get to write it in pen for him on the inside cover.

I just get to be there while he does.
Which, it turns out, is the part that matters most.