Each Other
Today I watched my kids scooter in circles around a pond like tiny planets with their own gravity. One flew toward the monkey bars while the other yelled, “Watch this!” from the see-saw, both of them sun-warmed and grass-stained and completely alive.
And it hit me all over again: The greatest gift I will ever give them is not a perfect childhood. Not a perfect home. Not a life untouched by change or heartbreak. It’s each other. Because one day, long after I am gone, they will still have someone who remembers the exact sound of our laughter in the kitchen. Someone who remembers the weird little family sayings, the hard years, the healing years, the snacks packed for park days, the songs in the car, the way we rebuilt life together from the inside out.
There is something uniquely special about siblings who become witnesses to each other’s existence. Do you know how much harder this world would be without someone who remembers the original version of you?
Watching them today felt like watching two little lanterns walking each other home before they even understand what darkness is. And suddenly every sacrifice feels smaller than that truth.