I think about that more than almost anything now — that Felix will inherit, without ever knowing he’s inheriting it, the one thing I had to claw my way to in my thirties.

He will grow up in a house where the accounts are honest and the words match the actions and no one is ever told that their real feelings are a performance they should be ashamed of.

He will not learn, the way I slowly learned, to check his own needs against someone else’s convenience before he dares to voice them.

He will simply assume, in his bones, that when he calls, someone comes — because in his whole life, someone always will have.