Best One Yet

Today I’m doing something I never expected when I started this SubStack,I’m handing over the keyboard to my son. This is his first piece of writing, at least the first one he’s shared with me, and I’ll admit I wasn’t sure what to expect when he told me he’d written something.

Then I read it, and I was floored.

There’s a moment every parent experiences when they suddenly see their child as a full person,not just as your kid, but as someone with their own interior life, their own way of processing the world. Reading this hit me like that. He’s 26 now, navigating fatherhood himself, working night shifts as a CNA while studying for his nursing degree, and somehow he found time to sit down and capture what it actually feels like to live an ordinary day in 2025. The politics that weigh on young families. The small rituals that hold us together. The way birthdays shift from celebrations to reckonings as you get older.

What strikes me most is how naturally he does this. He moves seamlessly between changing diapers and contemplating mortality, between scrolling Facebook birthday posts and wrestling with civic duty. The voice is authentic, the details are specific, and the emotional truth rings clear on every page. That’s what good writing does,it takes the ordinary and shows you what you missed the first time around.

I’m proud of him for a thousand reasons,the father he’s become, the way he shows up for his patients, his commitment to going back to school while raising a toddler. But reading this? Seeing him translate the mundane beauty and quiet anxiety of everyday life into something this honest and self-aware? That’s a different kind of pride. The kind that catches you off guard. He has a gift.

So here it is. His first article. Son, I’m proud of you. Keep writing. I have a feeling it won’t be your last, and I can’t wait to see what comes next.

And to my readers,if this piece resonates with you, let him know in the comments. First-time writers need encouragement, and your words might be what keeps him going. Share it if you think others should read it. Support new voices. This one deserves to be heard.

I awaken to the sounds of my son crying. I told my wife that I was going to sleep in today but the sound of my son screaming for me forces me up. My shoulder is still bothering me from working last night but a quick crack of the neck seems to put the pain at

bay for the time being. I stumble across the hallway and as I’m opening the door, my son seems to already know it’s me. “Happy birthday, Daddy! Here’s a fart!” A smile creaks across my face as my mind still tries to awaken.

Twenty Six. 26 years old today. As I change my son’s diaper, I can’t help but feel this sense of dread wash over me. Seems like ever since I turned 18, I’ve had this weird relationship with birthdays. What should be a day of joy has always been more of a day of reflection.

As I finish up changing my son’s diaper, he runs out of his room into our bedroom looking for his mama. Hurriedly, I grab him and whisk him into the living room to let my wife sleep in.

I’ve become quite easy regarding my birthdays. I brew my coffee and bring the french press into the air-conditioned living room to begin a day full of watching movies or sports. I’ve grown away from wanting gifts and dinners to now just wanting a day to myself.

I have to reassure my wife that she didn’t do anything wrong and that I still love her and my son, but I want an empty house until dinner time. As they walk out the door and I find myself alone, the quietness of the house eases something inside of me. The

couch calls to my rear end and it’s a call I NEED to answer.

Soon after my little family leaves, whatever is on the TV seems to fade into obscurity while my thoughts begin to wander. The conversation I had with my wife a few days ago has been burning a hole in my brain since we had it. As we were playing video games

together (a nightly routine around here) she took off her headset and looked at me with this solemn expression. “What are we supposed to do about all this?” I could tell my face was beckoning for some more context so she followed up with, “This Trump shit,

how can people live their lives when all of this shit is going on?” I took a deep breath.

When I met my wife, she never really liked talking about politics. To her, no matter who was in office, her life never changed. I have always been the opposite. Growing up, my dad never censored his beliefs and always spoke so intelligently when he got going

on them. This was always such a stark contrast to the typical joking demeaner the two of us shared between each other. As a kid, my political views were just a carbon copy of his because how could I refute someone who spoke so clearly on something? When I

would ask him a question about it, I was never met with a “because that’s what I believe.” but instead with an explanation as to why he thought that way. I remember vividly going to the polls with him in 2008 and watching him fill in the blank circle next

to Barack H. Obama. He smiled at me and there was so much pride in the simple action of filling in that blank.

When I turned 18, the midterms of his majesty’s first four rolled around. It wasn’t even a second thought that I needed to go vote, it had been instilled in my DNA that I had to. I remember going with my dad, and the lady at the little church not understanding

how two people with the same name and address showed up together to vote. Once that confusion was settled, I cast my first vote. Blue. I wore that sticker to work that night with pride. No matter where I lived after that election, I would vote.

Looking at my wife, I didn’t really know what to say. I’ve watched this woman transform from someone who wouldn’t even think about politics to challenging the people dearest to her on their beliefs. She would come to me with these dilemmas, and we would try

to talk through them and make some sense of them. So many times, I find myself repeating the same answer to her, you need to vote. No matter how many times I say it, it always feels like such a copout answer but what else is there to say? What can you say

to someone to relieve that hopelessness that so many others feel as well? So once again, I reminded her that next year are the midterms and we can go out and vote and try to turn our historically red state, blue.

I check my phone and it’s already almost 3. Part of me thinks I should text a couple coworkers and see if they want to meet up for some coffee or grub while the other part of me can’t fathom standing up today. I instead decide to drive the couple blocks over

to my parents’ house. As I walk in, my mom shouts happy birthday and runs over to me to shower me in hugs and kisses. For a moment, I feel like I’m a kid again feeling this overwhelming happiness that comes with birthdays. My dad remains seated and mocks me

for letting my mom kiss me. I know it’s in jest and just shrug my shoulders at him. I walk to the kitchen and scavenge through the fridge looking for something to drink somewhat knowing I’ll be doing plenty of talking. After throwing myself on the couch, my

mom slides a box over to me and tells me to open it. My dad looks at her in confusion before pretending he was in on the present too. My mom loves gifting. I think sometimes she has a hard time just saying, “I love you” and would rather pack that same sentiment

into a pretty box. I open the box up and the Saint Carlo Acutis medallion I helped my mom pick out, shines in my face.

A couple weeks ago, I watched live at work as Pope Leo XIV canonized Carlo Acutis as a saint. The striking image of his mother smiling while choking back tears clung to me. How can a parent who buried their child show so much grace? This boy was only 15 years

old and held so much more wisdom in his finger than most people have in their whole bodies. Since I read about him, (or as my wife says, watched a TikTok about him), I’ve been infatuated. Seeing a young person that lived their life to its fullest and instead

of fearing death, embraced it.

I rip open the packaging of the medallion and proudly place it around my neck, in hopes that wearing it will remind me of my mortality and the life of that young Italian boy. My nephew asks if we can play games tonight and I say yes knowing by the time I get

my son down to bed, he’ll have been long down for school tomorrow. I think he knows that we won’t play either but there’s no sense in not asking. I get a text from my wife letting me know that dinner at the in-laws is ready. I give my family hugs and sneak

a couple more sodas before I hit the door.

The drive over to my in-laws is a short one. When my wife and I first got married we almost moved a couple hours away but decided to stick around to be close to family. The money we’ve saved in daycare has definitely made that choice seem correct but sometimes

I still wonder about what could have been. As I get to their house I toss a nicotine pouch in my mouth. These things are going to kill me some day but I can’t foresee it being anytime soon. As I walk in, my son runs over and jumps into my arms. My wife is

on her mom’s laptop showing her something that doesn’t concern me, probably some arts and crafts shit. As I walk by her, I stop to wrap my arm around her and give her a squeeze. As much as it is loving, it’s also me telling her the day has gone alright. She

smiles at me before quickly dismissing me to get back to more pressing matters. My father-in-law has the game up on the TV so I head over to the couch to take a load off as my dad would say.

His face is buried in his phone as he scrolls through his facebook feed. My son jumps off my lap to continue making a mess somewhere else. I decide I can’t be the only one not on a screen and pull my phone out. I intentionally ignore my phone on my birthday.

I’ve always felt that the virtue signaling of writing “Thank you so much!” on every birthday post is just exhausting. But I do it anyways. People I haven’t talked to in the 8 years since I graduated make posts like we never lost contact. My relatives I don’t

talk to anymore say they love me. My coworkers post embarrassing photos of me dorking off on the clock. Steve, my father-in-law, leans over and shows me his phone. It’s a picture of Trump in clown makeup. He laughs like it’s comedy gold, so I entertain him

by laughing back. Before he goes back to doom scrolling, he leans in close and asks me if I saw what Trump said yesterday. He lowers his volume as my mother-in-law Shelly, who voted for the big T, walks by. My wife has been telling me about the disconnect

that they’ve been facing over their political views. Before he can get too into politics Shelly announces dinner is ready.

As I sit down at the table, my wife pours me a glass of water. Dinner looks alright, I didn’t have to cook it so I’m not complaining. Before we dive in, Shelly reminds Steve it’s his night to pray. We all lock hands while Steve rushes through a prayer. My wife

and I make dumb faces at each other while choking back laughter and our son looks at both of us, in what I assume is the 3-year-old equivalent to disappointment. As I shove my face full, Shelly asks me a million questions. I give easy answers so as not to

have to talk more than needed. It’s not that I don’t like talking to her, I just know she made her famous ice-cream cake for me and the faster this food goes down, the faster that cake comes out.

My wife gathers up the plates in a neat stack and takes them away to the kitchen. I’m telling my son about work last night and how Daddy had to help a lot of sick people. He looks at me with these eyes full of imagination and tells me he wants to be a doctor

one day like daddy to help people. While I could remind him I’m merely a CNA, why ruin the fantasy? Shelly’s voice pierces through the conversations singing happy birthday.

When we finally get back home, my son is asleep and goes down easily. Unfortunately for me, I still have to get on my laptop and finish up my nursing classes for the week. I don’t understand why I decided at the great age of 25 to go back to school but alas,

here I am. In my mind getting this degree will be something to be proud of, but in practice, having to take tests again sucks. After finally finishing up, its almost midnight. Another year down the drain. I wander downstairs to see if my wife wants to play

some video games, before I can even mutter the words she blurts out, “Finally, I played a couple warm up games waiting for you.” The rest of the night fades into obscurity as we talk more about politics, work, and gossip.

We finally find our way to bed at 2 in the morning. The weight of the day shreds off as I toss on a pair of shorts and cover up. I finish sending thank you comments on facebook and throw my phone to the side. My wife scoots in close and asks me, “So, how was

your birthday, old man?” The thought of the last 14 or so hours flood my mind and I must sit and think for a minute. Finally, after composing my thoughts, I turn to my wife and say,

“Best one yet.”

This story was written by my son and I couldn’t be prouder to share it here. His voice, his honesty, the quiet depth in how he writes about fatherhood, politics, and faith,it reminds me why I keep this space alive. If you’ve been moved by his words or by the stories we tell here, I’d love for you to consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support helps keep this work going, helps me publish more pieces like this, and helps a new generation of writers,like my son find their readers. Thank you for reading, sharing, and being part of this little community.