My son Lucas is an older soul than I am––it was clear from early on in his life, and exacerbated by his diabetes diagnosis at ten months of age. How he could survive that, I just don't know. In his shoes, I would have crumbled or failed to develop. But there he is, nine years old as I write this, out there making friends and finding his way in the world. He has an unfathomable underlying toughness and my undying respect. 

Like every father, I have my worries about him. Sometimes he can be superficial, overly influenced by entertainment culture, and way too materialistic for me to handle. He's been known to avoid work and responsibility, and generally doesn't abide by the “Wingate guy code” that I grew up with. We’re supposed to be downtrodden, dammit! Proletarian! 

But he'll find his way. He's a different kind of cat than me––he's always reminded both me and Jen of her father's side of the family, particularly her cousin Dominic in California––and early on I gave up trying to understand him completely. But that's not part of a father's job. All I'm supposed to do is love him, teach him right from wrong, and always, always do things we love together. Then it will all work out better than fine. I trust you, Luc.