My sister dumped a glass of wine all over my six-year-old son’s birthday artwork while the room filled with laughter. Mom rushed to protect the tablecloth—not my child. I said nothing, until my dad suddenly stood up, removed his wedding ring, and let it fall into the pool of red. Then he pulled out a leather notebook he’d kept hidden for years… and ten minutes later…

January 7, 2026 by Nadia

My son Jacob sat at the far end of the table, his legs swinging, his thin shoulders hunched forward in concentration. His tongue poked out between his teeth in that way he did when he was completely absorbed. In front of him lay the painting—his painting—taped carefully at the corners to a piece of cardboard, the cheap watercolor paper bowed just slightly from layers of blue and green.

He had been working on it for three days.

Three days of waking up early in the cabin’s tiny guest room, tiptoeing so he wouldn’t wake me, sneaking to the deck with his little plastic palette and that battered brush set we bought at the craft store. Three days of staring at the lake, eyes narrowed, trying to mix the exact shade of blue that captured the way the water went dark near the dock and lighter where the sun hit it.

“Do you think Grandpa’s going to like it?” he’d whispered to me that morning, while the coffee machine sputtered and coughed in the kitchen.

“He’s going to love it,” I’d said, pressing a kiss to the top of his messy hair. “He loves anything you make.”

But that wasn’t quite true.

My father, David, did love Jacob. I never doubted that. But he didn’t love “anything” the way people say in movies. He loved things that were careful. Thought-out. Solid. He was a structural engineer, and he trusted weight, numbers, plans. He loved the tiny Lego bridge Jacob had made last Christmas and refused to let anyone disassemble. He loved the school report Jacob had rewritten twice because he’d spelled “engineer” wrong the first time. Continue reading…