I wake up in the morning, tired. I get up, make the beds, grab the laundry basket and head downstairs. I put on a pot of coffee and make the kids breakfast, while my wife makes their lunches for school. We do the dishes together, we drink coffee together, we talk about our days and the monotony which lays ahead. Then she drives them to school with one vehicle and I drive to work with the other.

The office is quiet until it isn’t. Then it’s filled with nonsense. One of my bosses, Greg Davies, talks about Trump.

“Should be fucking killed. Should be shot in the head.”

The other boss, Andrew Tomes, doesn’t watch the news, but he likes to talk. So he doesn’t like these conversations because he’s forced to listen. When he gets his chance, he changes the subject to one he knows a lot about. People. Then everyone else is forced to listen.

Greg nods, and smiles, fake laughing at the right points, then slowly returns his gaze to the computer screen. Andrew leaves, talking to himself as he enters his office and Greg laughs.

“Christ, can he ever talk.” I smile and nod, not confident enough in the thickness of the walls, to say that my boss never shuts his mouth.

It’s semi-quiet for a little while, but then the noise starts up once again. First, with Andrew’s Zoom meetings in his office. He’s partially deaf so he speaks at volume one thousand. He tells the same tired jokes about tariffs (he doesn’t watch the news but he knows that much) and laughs before adding, “I know the meeting isn’t about tariffs because if it was, I could go on all day about it. (No he couldn’t. He couldn’t go any further than he just has.)

I share an office with Greg, and every once in a while, he tries to get the political discussion started again. “You know why he’s doing this eh?” I turn around, hoping he isn’t talking to me, but I know that he is. “I’m not really sure.” I answer. “So he can crash the market, buy a shitload of property cheap and sell it all high. He’s crazy, but he isn’t stupid. He knows who his audience is. He knows exactly what he’s doing.” “Yeah, that sounds about right.” I answer, sounding like Andrew, (We both know I could go on about this all day, if I wanted to. But unfortunately, I have work to do.)

I decide to google some news and read it quickly so that maybe I have something else to add. But I don’t, and the articles are as dry as desert air. I just don’t care, though I should. I know, I should.

Around 10am, Andrew’s wife, Julie comes in. If anyone could take the verbal diarrhea award away from Andrew, it’s Julie. It’s about her mom, always her mom. She’s pushing 90, and she is as stubborn as a mule. Greg’s her brother, Andrew’s her husband. It’s all family in the building, and so each day in the office is like a Thanksgiving reunion.

“Do you know what that woman did today?” She asks, and answers before anyone else has a chance to. “She gave seven thousand dollars to a fucking stranger.” This gets Greg’s attention, and mine too. Although it’s all being said right in front of me, I don’t look over. But I listen. Because why not? I’m bored as shit. “Some scammer called her and apparently he sounded like cousin Benny. He tells her he’s in jail in Mexico. Can you believe that? Says he needs seven grand for bail. So what does mother do? She walks down to the bank, takes out the money and a man shows up at her house and takes the cash.”

Greg and Julie talk about this for a half hour, ignore a few customers that come in, while Andrew is shouting at the top of his lungs on his Zoom call. I think about a video I saw on Facebook earlier. A man is saying that the office is where productivity lives and the home is where it dies. He’s arguing against office workers working from the comfort of their homes. “The office,” he says, “Is where the magic happens.” I look around the dimly lit office. Mother handing out her retirement savings to a man who knocked at her door has gone back to Trump. Somehow, his idiocy as a President is related to his elderly mother losing seven grand.

“Should have killed him when they had the chance.”

This is where magic goes to die.

2.

I work in a wood manufacturing plant, by the way. On the marketing side. My job is to find suitable clients across the globe who’d be interested in buying some high end hardwood. All wood that I wouldn’t be able to afford in ten lifetimes, the irony isn’t lost on me. I need to act like a big player. Big man with big money, and talk to architects, designers, and all sorts of folks with money to burn and aesthetic appeal engraved in their brain. I talk like I know, but I don’t. (Fake it till you make it, right?)

I spend a lot of time staring at a blank screen and having fake conversations with my boss. Conversations where I have balls, actual balls, to walk into his office, sit down next to him and say, “I want a raise. A nice big raise or I’m walking.”

He says, “Sure. Just tell me a number, and it’ll be on your next pay.”

And I give him a big fat six figure number. I come home and tell my wife.

We pay off our debts, and in the fantasy we even make love afterwards. Doing all the things that I’m too afraid to ask her to do.

But I say none of it. Courage isn’t my cross to bear, and in reality, I don’t even know if I deserve it. The world, it seems, has just made it hard to live comfortably. And so because of that, I feel I’m worth more than I receive. I feel like I’m worth a shitload of money, because it takes a shitload of money to live. But I don’t know what I’m worth. I don’t have a clue.

I can’t run around throwing ultimatums around. Because the reality of the conversation could just as easily go like this.

“I want a raise, a big raise or I’m walking.”

“Nope.”

“Uh, what?”

“Yeah, I said, no. Leave if you’re going to leave or go back to your desk.”

Then I’d have to walk back to my desk, my shoulders slumped and my junk between my legs. Feeling worse off than before. No more money, but a clear realization about my value and what I bring to the team. It all might just be too much to bear. Then my conversation at home might go something like this.

“Honey, I’m HOOOMMEEE! And guess what?”

“What?” She asks excitedly. “I lost my job. So no more money coming in. Say, can we do that thing that I fantasize about all the time. You know. The move.”

“Get fucked! I’m leaving. Come on kids. Daddy is nothing but a loser.”

“Loser daddy! Loser daddy! Loser daddy!” They chant as they walk out of the house in unison.

So I click away on my laptop. Clickity, click. Clickity click. And I turn around and look at Greg.

“Trump is a fucking madman. You know what I mean?”

“I could go on about it all day.” He says.

“Tell me about it. Tell me about it.”

3.

My brain and I used to be pals, you know? I can’t remember when the breakup occurred, but it seems it was a messy one. A real messy one. Trauma City.

“What did I ever do to you?” I ask it sometimes.

“You had the nerve to grow up.”

“Well what are my other options?”

“You know what they are.”

“But I don’t want that.”

“Well, if you don’t want it. Then deal with it. Deal with the mess. Clean up as best you can but don’t ever expect it to be squeaky clean. Because another shit storm is always over the horizon, you know?”

“I guess”

“You’re learning. You’re learning.”

4.

In the afternoon I drive home for lunch. It’s only a five minute drive, and with the wife and kids at work, I enjoy having a few moments of silence. A few moments where I don’t have to pretend. Sometimes there are leftovers and when there aren’t, I just pour myself a bowl of mini wheats and eat them in the silence as the cat paces and meows at me to give him attention.

The TV is off and I stare at myself in the dark reflection. I contemplate a couple of things. Having a nap, or unzipping my jeans and having a go at myself. Not because I really want to, but because I’m alone, and I don’t have many opportunities to be alone. But I end up doing neither.

I walk over to the spare room and grab my guitar from the stand and strum a few chords as I look at myself in the mirror. I can feel that I’m having one of those days. Just one of those days where it feels that each step I’ve taken had to have been the wrong one. No doubt about it. But that’s loneliness and selfishness creeping in.

“Deal with it.” My brain says.

“Or you know what your other option is.”

“Shut up, would ya?”

“Make me.”

“You’re being childish.”

“I know you are but what am I?”

“An idiot.”

“Then what does that make you?”

“An idiot.”

“Bingo. Nail on the head. Grand prize. Winner winner chicken dinner.”

I strum some more chords. The same tired chords, because I haven’t learned anything new in half a decade. Chords in the key of G, chords in the key of E, a couple of a lame attempts at a solo, and then I sing a partial song that I’d written a few years back that could have possibly been something, had I persevered and finished the damn thing, but of course, I didn’t. I sing the first line, “Here I am back home again, not a boy, maybe not a man, just a soul trying to do what he can, planting a seed in a dry desert land.”

Not bad. Pretty good. Never finished it, and never will, but not too bad.

I put the guitar back up on the stand that hangs next to a poster of the Rolling Stones. Exile on Main Street. Cool shit. Cool band.

I sit on the lazy boy for a few minutes, and realize that I’m pacing like the fucking cat. I get annoyed at the cat for pacing so much. In the kitchen, downstairs, upstairs, back in the kitchen, the spare room, back to the living room, the kitchen. Pick a spot and sit down for Christ sakes. But I’m doing the same thing aren’t I? Hard to find a place to go when it’s your skin you’re looking to escape, I suppose.

One more thought about checking out some porn on my phone before saying, fuck it, and heading back to work. So much on my mind. So much I want to say. But if I haven’t said it by now, well, what does that mean?

I drive back home

with the radio on,

except it’s no longer my home.

Just a graveyard of memories.

I’m driving back for your funeral, Nan.

I’ve written a couple of books,

and so I’ve been asked to write and read your eulogy

at the little church

on that thin stretch of gravel road

where you used to take me as a child.

I’m the writer of the family now,

my father says.

We have a little bit of time before the funeral,

so I decide to show my kids

where their dad lived when he was growing up.

I show them my high school,

Braxton’s house right next to it,

and the park where I had my first kiss.

We turn right

and then left

and right again

before a two-story house

with a red steel roof

stands just like it did

all those years ago,

except now the tiny shrub

that we planted in the front yard

is as tall as the house.

I look into the window

where my bedroom was.

How many nights

I stared outside of it.

I can almost see my younger self

looking out.

Opening the blinds

just a hair

with my thumb and forefinger,

watching my dad walk to work

in the early morning fog.

But now I’m the dad,

and the kids are in the backseat.

I turn around,

and they don’t seem to care,

but that’s alright.

They’re too young

to care about the past.

Their past is non-existent,

which is why they’re so good

at living in the moment.

Up the street we go

and turn to the gyrel—

the skatepark where I spent

my summer days

shooting hoops,

hoping that all the answers

were inside of that metal rim.

I can see Pat,

and Jake,

and Spencer,

and Fraser,

and Nate,

and Braxton

all playing their hearts out.

I can see us

sitting on the thin stretch of grass

between the fence

and the asphalt.

We’re talking.

We’re talking about girls,

and movies,

and sports.

We’re walking to the theatre

to watch a movie—

not because we know what’s playing,

but because the night is young,

and so are we.

And even if the movie is garbage,

we’ll be there together,

laughing,

and knowing

that tomorrow

is just as hopeful

as today.

We keep driving down Aaron Street,

and an old Toyota Corolla drives by

and I can see Zach inside of it.

He just got his license,

and he asks me if I want to go for a drive.

I say, hell yeah,

and we drive through town.

I ask him to put on some music,

and all he has

is a cassette

of Madonna’s Greatest Hits.

We laugh

and put it on,

and before we know it,

we’re singing Like a Prayer

with the windows rolled down—

the old windows

that you needed to crank

with all your might.

I tell my kids

and my wife

about these memories.

My wife smiles

and the kids

just want to get out of the car.

I tell them soon.

Just a few more minutes

down memory lane,

because I’m sure

that after the funeral,

I won’t be coming back.

We cross the Van Horne Bridge,

and again I’m a teenager.

I’m 16 years old

and I’ve just finished getting

twelve stitches

above my left eye.

I’m drugged up

and holding a massive teddy bear.

I’m going to see my girlfriend

because I’m late for our date.

There’s a soft snow falling

and my head is ringing,

but she’s the first real girlfriend

I’ve ever had,

and so I need to see her.

I walk and walk and walk

and finally ring on her doorbell.

Sweaty,

out of breath,

and woozy from the painkillers.

She opens the door,

and I smile crookedly

before handing her the teddy bear.

She begins to cry

and wraps her arms around me so tight

that I can barely breathe.

She kisses me,

and my God,

to be wanted that badly

is a gift.

I look over at my wife,

and remember

when she used to do the same.

Finally,

we turn around

and head to the countryside—

to the little country church

with the small gravel parking lot.

There are cars lined up on either side,

and the wind is beginning to pick up.

My hands are clammy,

and my heart is racing

with reckless abandon,

because I’m scared

to read the eulogy,

and I’m scared

at the prospect

of looking at the small dirt hole

with flowers in it

and knowing that it’s true.

She’s gone.

So is my aunt,

and my grandfather.

They’re reunited.

My father and my uncle

are now a family of two.

Once a family of five—

they’re all that’s left.

And I don’t know what to say to them.

I’ve never known,

even during the best of days.

The pastor prays for my Nan

and then asks me to come up

and read the eulogy.

I’m frightened

and didn’t expect to be called upon so quickly.

My hands are shaking

and my voice cracks a couple of times

in the beginning.

But eventually,

I get my groove

and I read stories

that make my family laugh

and even cry.

I tell them about the flowers

in the garden centre,

and I tell them

about midnight snacks.

How I loved her pork chops so much

that as a kid

I asked for them on New Year’s Eve

when everyone was in bed.

Just her and I

eating pork chops

at the dining table

as the rest of the world went to sleep.

Afterwards,

we go to the firehall,

where we eat egg salad sandwiches

and homemade cookies

and watch a photo gallery of pictures

of her and my grandfather,

and my father and uncle and aunt—

all young and happy and healthy.

Their whole lives ahead of them.

My father is quiet,

trying to joke away the pain,

but it’s hard—

I can see it in his eyes

how hard it is.

I speak with relatives,

and then it’s time to leave.

On the drive back,

I’m quiet.

My wife doesn’t know what to say,

just like I didn’t know what to say.

As the mountains fade

in the rearview mirror,

there’s a moment

where I’m sad,

and I think

I might just break down and cry.

But I realize

that the town that I loved,

and that molded me,

needed to hurt me.

It needed to hurt me

so that I could know

what it feels like

when it happens to my kids.

When life turns upside down on them,

I’ll know.

And I’ll tell them

about the little black box of pain.

The one that you think is a curse,

but is actually a gift.

Because like my Nan always said—

“Flowers can’t grow without a little rain.”

Last night I dreamed you were there. I was 18 years old again in dirty work pants. You pulled up in your old red Civic, walked out with that smile of pride on your face. And I thought, “What is there to be proud of, Nan? I’m as lost as can be. Doing work anyone could do.” But your smile remained, even seemed to grow wider.

We walked through the garden centre. The smell of petunias, geraniums, lavender, bleeding heart, all mixing into a sweet aroma. You closed your eyes and took it all in. You were in the moment, while I was somewhere else. Lamenting about the past, or fearing for the future. But you were right there, in it. Appreciating it. Appreciating each breath and the chance to talk about flowers with your grandson.

You said, “Do you know your flowers yet?”

“Not really,” I answered. And you lightly tapped me on my forearms and called me a little turkey, like you always did.

You told me about perennials and annuals and which flowers need more water than others. You told me that I had the best job in the world, and you’d love to work here. It would be your dream job.

“You can have it.” I said, and smiled. You smiled too.

We walked through the greenhouse, touching and smelling the flowers. You telling me stories about them. About how grandpa took you to a dance when you were young, and he placed a petunia above your left ear. A simple gesture, but you kept that flower and framed it, and it still hangs next to a framed picture of Jesus in your bedroom. You kneel down and pray before bed, and look at Jesus, and the flower. And it reminds you of how lucky you are.

In the dream I didn’t say I had to get back to work. I just said, “Keep going, Nan. I want to hear all about it.”

In my dream, a soft rain falls and the raindrops hit off the greenhouse but we’re safe and I have nowhere else to go. You have nowhere else to be. We have all the time in the world.

The rain falls, but then it begins to fall harder. It reaches a point where it drowns you out, Nan. I can’t hear you.

But you just smile. You gently rub my face and a tear falls. I’m reaching the point of a dream where I know it’s a dream.

“I miss you,” I say.

“I miss you, too.” She answers.

Outside the greenhouse, I can see the sun.

You tell me I have to go.

“Remember every storm runs out of rain.” You say.

I open my eyes and I’m lying in bed. You’re gone, and the storm is still relentless.

Hi everyone! I've just released my first novella. If anyone is interested, you can purchase it on Amazon. It's titled A Walk Through the Years by Eric Johnson

Again, I want to thank everyone on this website who've posted challenges, gave me feedback on my work, and followed me. Because of you, I've been able to push myself over the last couple of years.

I'm really proud of this book and I'd love to know your thoughts, if you decide to read it.

Thanks!

`I remember the day of the 9/11 attacks. It was the day before my birthday and my mother’s, and the day of my best friend’s father’s birthday. I was too young to understand it, and it would be years before I’d fill my head with literature and documentaries on the attacks to understand what had happened that day.

My father picked me up from school, and I remember his smell and his youth. His navy blue worn Teamsters hat with black hair flowing out of the back. He looked serious, a little distraught, with a furrowed brow. He asked me how school was, and I said it was good. And then I asked him, “What’s wrong?”

And all he said was, “Something bad happened today.” And that was the end of the conversation.

We walked across Aaron Street and then down George and through Dover. My birthday was the following day and like most years, even though we were back in school, the sun hadn’t yet decided it was time for fall weather and was still beating down with the intensity of summer. I don’t remember how much we talked, or if we talked, but I remember being happy despite the circumstances.

Once we walked through the front door, we were in the living room and there was footage. I remember smoke and I remember my father standing behind the couch, watching. Because when anything intense was happening in the world, he never sat. He stood, restless, like he wanted to do something but knew he was helpless to do so.

But I sat on the couch, reading comics and sinking into the old cushions that enveloped me like a second skin. School was over, the weather was beautiful and I had my comics and my birthday, and my whole life ahead of me. I was happy and in the background was chaos.

The following morning, I woke up and walked to the dining room where the entire table was filled from corner to corner with comics and a card sitting in the middle. I felt like the happiest kid in the world, because the real world was not my world. The scenes on the news of the twin towers could have been a movie. Maybe one directed by Michael Bay, where a hero was going to go up and rescue everyone and everything would be okay. There were no stakes to real-life events for a kid, because they weren’t real. People didn’t die. The world was a haven for everyone, where people could walk home from school and sit on a couch and read comics, and get more for their birthday and then go to school where everyone smiled and said Happy Birthday, and then came home to cake with candles lit and their mom and father singing to them, and telling them that no matter what, they needed to feel special on their birthday.

As I grow older, nostalgia becomes a stronger and stronger force. And as many mundane memories from childhood slip into that dark ether where the less important moments go, all that remains is the mundane of today and the spectacular of those years. Creating a pseudo-fantasy, one that can be dangerous if not checked.

I spoke to my brother not long ago about writing a book based on our childhoods in the 90s and early 2000s. I said,

“Do you actually remember what it was like, then? Like actually remember?” He thought about it for a moment and then said.

“Not really. Some things. The movies we went to see in the theatre. The year we won the Varsity basketball championship. Things like that.”

I said, “Yeah. me too. But everyone our age is online everyday complaining that the world is shit now, and how much better it was 20 years ago.”

“Well, it was.” He said.

“How do you figure?”

He paused for a moment. “Look at this way, when you’re a kid, nothing is too late. That’s what nostalgia is. It’s the reason that people can look back at their father’s coming home drunk and beating their asses with a smile. Because even though it was likely horrible at the time, what they did was go to their room afterwards and dream. Man, in a couple of years, I’ll be out of this town. Shit like that. But now, the magic is wearing off, you see? Sure, self-help gurus will still tell you that everything is possible, but we know now that we’re not going to the NBA. We know we’re not going to play any sports professionally. You know now that you’re most likely not going to be a rock star. That’s why the past is better, because it wasn’t about what we were actually doing, it was about the possibilities of what we could do.”

“Wow.” I said and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” He asked.

“I was just thinking about 9/11.”

“That’s weird.” We laughed again.

“I know. I was remembering dad picking me up from school on 9/11 and telling me that something bad had happened. I was just remembering him younger, and stronger and walking home down Aaron and George and Dover, and the news being on the TV when I got home. I remember dad standing behind the couch, pacing like he always did. But I remember being happy, even as the news showed total destruction and the next day was the birthday when dad filled the dining room table with comics. You remember that?”

“I do.” He said. Then he laughed. “I was thinking about that not too long ago, too.”

9/11?”

“Well, kind of. It was at the same time that Brad and I stole the golf cart and crashed it. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember.”

“That was the same time. I broke my arm and told mom I broke it falling off a swing. Remember? We even went to the hospital in Bathurst, where mom went off on the doctor for saying that there was no way I broke it falling off a swing.”

At that, we both erupted in laughter. Picturing my mom screaming at a doctor, yelling, “If my son says he broke it falling off a swing, then he broke it falling off a swing!!”

“Then dad taped a wooden spoon to my arm and wrapped it in gauze. Remember that? I was playing baseball at the time and we practiced that whole fall. It was fucking brutal. Throwing the ball in the front yard with a broken arm and a wooden spoon taped to it. I was just thinking about that because I remember looking at your comics on the dining room table and accidentally knocking a couple on the floor with my spoon hand and you getting upset.”

“Shit, eh? I don’t remember that. That’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, the old man really wanted me to play in the majors. For a little while there, I thought it was possible.”

“You were pretty good.”

“Yeah,” he said with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“Your arm was broken, and you were in a shitload of pain and I was sitting on the couch as the towers fell. And yet these are wonderful memories.”

“They’re all wonderful memories. That’s the problem.”

I spent the summer of 2017 in Winnipeg training for a job with the railroad. 8 weeks at a state-of-the-art facility doing both classwork and practical work to ensure that I was good and ready to not lose a limb or cut myself in half by the time I returned home to eastern Canada.

My then-girlfriend (currently my wife) was pregnant with our first child, and we were living in a small apartment in Fredericton, New Brunswick. Before the announcement of the pregnancy, the apartment seemed like a little slice of heaven. Something of our own. A little hint of freedom. But when I came home from work one afternoon to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the duvet and nervously telling me that she was pregnant, the apartment instantly revealed itself to be what it truly was. A dump. A small decrepit building with lead-footed upstairs neighbours, and needle-using neighbours to the left with toothless smiles and irritated blotched skin.

At that time I’d just graduated from university and was working in a lumber yard while writing music and chasing dreams of becoming an acoustic singer-songwriter. I’d played a few gigs at bars and cafes around the city, and professionally recorded a few songs at a studio across the bridge by a young man who gave me a good deal because he’d just found out that his wife had another family in Europe, and just didn’t give a shit about his rates. I wasn’t climbing the charts or making any money, but I was young and filled with a self-confidence that boarded on narcissism, that seemed to be serving me well.

So when the announcement that I was going to be a father echoed in my ears, I felt my shoulders slump and I took a walk downtown past old gothic churches with sinister steeples that seemed to be mocking me in judgement. I’m no religious man but the symbols were strong and eerie, and all these years later, I can still picture them, images from the changing of the guard. When the skin was shedded, the old self was gone, and the rebirth of someone new. Someone not self-centered, someone who would provide and stuff away silly dreams of being a new Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, or whoever the hell I thought I was going to be.

That evening I sat in a coffee shop on Queen Street, near the back by the discount rack of books that smelled like stale cigarettes, and years of neglect. The chair was old and sunken deep, and beside me was a painting of a boat navigating an angry storm, dark, and malicious. I sipped on my coffee and thought about decisions, because anyone who’s a parent knows that those months fly by and the longer you put off some form of a structured plan, the bigger your chances are of holding a newborn, looking in their soft innocent eyes, and saying, “Sorry. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Then I travelled back in time to my teenage years in Campbellton. We lived in a house with stained white siding and a steel roof at the bottom of a hill in a working-class suburb. Whether this was a dream, reality, or a nostalgic cocktail of the two, I’m not entirely sure, but this is the way that I remember it. I’d lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as it slanted downward at a 45-degree angle, I’d hear my father and mother downstairs, talking. He was getting ready for work. I’d hear three soft kisses in succession and then the closing of our front door with a loud thud. I’d run to the window and peek through the blinds like I was Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window and stare at my father as he walked up the hill into a thick malevolent fog that transported him into the world of men. A world of danger, where the God was steel, and steel was an unforgiving and vengeful God. An Old Testament God. And my hands would shake as his body moved towards it. Stained overalls, a Teamster hat, a metal lunch bucket, a coffee thermos, and steel-toed boots tied with long laces wrapped around the top of the boot, one, maybe two times, and he was gone. That world frightened me as a kid, and I thought I’d outrun it forever.

But as I finished my coffee that evening, I realized that I was a man. Not much younger than my father was then, and it was time to embrace my bloodline and head back home, to the God of steel.

“What do you think about me asking my dad about seeing if he can get me on at the railroad?” I asked Morgan.

“There’s no railroad here.” She answered.

“No. There isn’t. We’d have to move. But it pays well, and we could have a house by the time the baby is born.”

“What about our friends? What about your brother?” She asked.

“We’d still see them. Just not as much.”

And she cried. But not tears of regret or longing, but rather tears of acceptance, and understanding that it was a good plan, or at least, the best plan in our limited options. So, I called my father, and the process began. A series of interviews, aptitude tests, and physicals got me to my training dates. The summer of 2017, when my son was due.

Then more tears followed as we realized that I’d likely be at the other end of the country when our son was born, and that Morgan’s parents would have to move her to a post-industrial town in the northern part of the province, where she didn’t know a soul, and she’d have to stay there, alone, pregnant, and hot as she waited for me to return so that we could start our new life.

She agreed.

On the evening before I was set to fly out, I didn’t sleep. I wrapped my arm around her belly and rubbed it throughout the evening, listening to her softly snore, and the steady rhythmic traffic outside the window. This had been our home, and in the morning it would no longer be home. The notion that the following evening I’d be sleeping in a hotel a thousand miles away had my heart racing and my skin cold. Was I making a mistake? Did I give up on this place too easily?

Too late now.

That evening is still tattooed on my brain. Her belly, my hand rubbing in a clockwise motion, the decisions of being an adult, how in the snap of a finger, it all changes.

The eight weeks spent out west were strange, but not without a ray of hope. I met some great guys. Guys that I’d still consider friends all these years later. Though we weren’t all navigating the same storm, we were all lost at sea, all seeking companionship to ride out the storm and see where we ended up. And in that aspect, we weren’t alone.

The courses weren’t overly difficult, but there was an overlying fear of failure. Guys did fail the course there, and you were sent off with a handshake and the best of luck as you hopped on a plane and flew back home without a job. I’ve since learned to handle my business and work under pressure in the subsequent years, but this was a major challenge for me, with stresses and anxieties that were as foreign as the prairie landscape of Manitoba.

Towards the end of the course, I received a text from Morgan telling me that she was going into labour. I could have flown back but there was an issue with doing that. If I went, then I wouldn’t graduate with my class and I’d have to wait and finish up with another class when they got to where I currently was with their education. Not ideal. There was also the very real, and rational fear that if I were to meet my son, kiss his head, look into his eyes and his mother’s and hold them, and for the first time understand what having a family truly meant, that there was just no way on God’s green earth that I’d hop on a plane and come back. That would restrict me, and all of this would have been for nothing.

So on a Saturday in late July, Morgan went into labour and I watched via FaceTime in my hotel room. I went through the highs and lows, and the unbearable pain of not being there. I watched as Morgan screamed, and I transported myself back to the evening before I left, just me and her round belly, and all the questions of the world that I couldn’t answer. And I asked myself once again, “Was this all a mistake?”

Then after hours, our son was born. But there were complications in the delivery. Shoulder Dystocia is what they call it, and it’s basically when a baby's shoulder gets caught above the pubic bone, when they finally delivered my boy, they rushed him off to the NICU in a panic. Just like that, “Where’s Lukas?” I asked. And Morgan screamed, “Where’s my boy? Where is he? Where is he?” And she cried, and I cried, and I threw my phone across the hotel room looked out at the city skyline, and closed my eyes. Wishing I was back home, like the Wizard of Oz, there’s no place like home.

There were some mild complications, but after a few hours we were able to see my boy in a tube in the NICU and it broke my heart. The doctors said he’d be fine, that they just needed to monitor him and a few days later, he was out.

Then came the day when it was time to go home. We all went to the airport and sat and waited with anticipation. My class all graduated, except for one and we were feeling pretty proud and unbelievably excited to be home. Morgan moved from Fredericton to Bathurst, which was about an hour south of where I grew up. The job required an immense amount of travel, so we rented an old house in a nice neighborhood, and her parents moved her in with the help of my brother, and a couple of my buddies.

As I sat in the airport, I thought about the whirlwind of changes. I’d lived in a University city, living in a small apartment with Morgan, working in a lumber yard, playing guitar. I was returning with a new job, in a new city, in a new house that I’d never seen, and a baby that I’d never met. It was a lot, to say the least.

The flight got delayed a couple of times as tornado warnings were delaying and cancelling flights all over the country. And I felt that urge to cry again. I just wanted to go home, why was it so hard to just get back home? After hours, we hopped on a flight to Montreal, and then I got on a small plane from Montreal to Bathurst.

As the plane approached the tarmac in Bathurst, my new home, I felt an unbelievable zest for life. And as we landed, I could have planted my lips on the asphalt and held them there for the world’s longest kiss. I was home, and that part of my life was finished. A friend of mine named Ryan drove me to my place, and I had no idea where it was. I didn’t know the city that well, and I just gave him the address. Once we reached the house, Morgan waited outside for me, holding my son and I thanked Ryan and his wife for driving me, then I grabbed my suitcase in the trunk and walked down the driveway and held them both, right outside on a warm August afternoon. Tired and depleted, I just held them. I remember Ryan telling me that his wife cried as she watched us, thinking the moment was so beautiful. Once we went inside, I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Do you want to hold him?” Morgan asked. And I’d realized that I’d never held a baby before in my life.

“I do. But I’m nervous.” I answered.

“You don’t have to be nervous.” And she handed him to me. I picked him up and held him in the palms of my hand. I kissed his forehead and told him that that was it. No more long trips away from him, that I was going to be around. I was going to be around. My hands shook nervously, and everything around me was foreign, but at the same time, I smiled. It was all perfect too.

I had a few days to rest, and then it was time to head back home, into the fog.

Then one morning, I woke up and grabbed my work clothes that were piled in front of my closet. Lukas was sleeping in a bassinet next to Morgan and I walked over and kissed him on his forehead. It was dark. Too early, and as I went downstairs to brew some coffee, I realized that the course was just the beginning. This was where the work actually started.

I hopped in my car, turned on the radio, and drank my coffee as I drove an hour north on Highway 11. The summer was slowly turning into the fall, and a fog was rising over the lakes as I drove towards the God of steel.

I was just a kid, I thought. A room filled with posters. A mind with no more depth than basketball and girls, movies, and music. I was just a kid, strumming my guitar, and sitting with my friends along a thin stretch of grass between the asphalt and the fence. We were spinning basketballs on our fingers and imagining a basketball scout taking us away from the smokestacks and the grinding, screeching sounds of steel on steel as the railroaders shunted freight cars in the yard along the riverside. I was just a kid who’d run away from that world. Who went to a liberal world of free love and music, and hope and dreams, and here I was. The fog enveloped me. It was time to see what was on the other side.

I was going home.

Nothing

I don’t know if you’ll care about this when you get older. Maybe you won’t, and if that’s the case, that’s fine by me. All I know is that every day, I watched you two grow a little, shedding the skin of your previous selves. Every day, I remind myself that, Eric, you need to write about them—or at least, start taking notes—so you don’t forget. And every day, I waved it off, why? Out of fear, perhaps. Fear of the stakes involved in writing about the world that means the most to you—the people who mean the most to you—and not hiding what parenthood and marriage really are. They’re beautiful, but hard. Boy, are they hard?

But I think the real reason is that I love you two so much that, I fear that I can’t write from above it. I’m not an 80-year-old man who’s looking back on his life through scrapbooks and half-memories, faint truths and illusions. I’m living right in it. As I write this very sentence, you’re both playing Lego on the floor next to me, screaming bloody murder and running back and forth from room to room. I tell myself that maybe I should wait until you’re older to write these stories, because there are still so many stories to come. But I think, I’ll try this now. I can’t tell you why, but it feels important.

You two need to be at the center of a story. As a writer, I can’t avoid it—nor do I want to. With fiction, I can hide behind the characters. I can scatter little pieces of my life through them, like pixie dust. But when you write nonfiction, it feels a little like standing up in front of a room filled with everyone you’ve ever known, taking off your shirt, zipping down the entirety of your midsection, and saying, “Hey, here’s everything that I am. And likely everything I’ll ever be.”

It’s a tough one, we’re so accustomed to hiding in plain sight. From the time we’re born, we’re trained—directly or indirectly—to stuff down that which causes us grief. We’re experts at it. Writing feels like self-exploitation. It feels like guilt, but a pang of necessary guilt.

Though I try my best to ensure that you both know the man behind the mask, I know there will still be times in life when something keeps you from coming to me. When embarrassment and shame creep into your consciousness, making you feel like you’re letting me down—or your mother. Times when you’ll be in your bedroom, feeling like the whole world is wrong. Wondering when you woke up to streets that felt different, skies that looked sinister, friends who were never truly friends—just small-town bodies in close proximity. It will happen, as it happened to me.

And though my parents never told me not to come to them, I still felt a natural inclination toward solitude. Reprieve through music and movies. Through anything except talking. Because even if you have someone to go to, sometimes, you just don’t have the words. That’s life. For better or worse.

At the end of the day, I’m writing these stories because I need to. As much as I need to breathe, to eat, to hydrate, to love—I need to write. And what’s more important than the two of you? As I hope you’ll gather from these stories, the answers will be spread out throughout the entire book.

Nothing

Maps

Lukas, you’ve recently become infatuated with maps. You sit on the floor, your maps sprawled out, staring intently as your finger traces across continents, oceans, and rivers. You softly whisper to yourself while your mom and I exchange smiles. You’re only six, and yet, you bury me every time in a game of Find the Country. It’s not even close—and no, I’m not letting you win. Not at all.

Recently, you asked me about the places I’ve been to.

“I haven’t traveled a whole lot,” I said. “Just around Canada.” I pointed to Quebec City, then Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa, and finally Winnipeg.

“You’ve been to Manitoba?” you asked, your eyes lighting up.

I told you, yes, and that’s where I was when you were born.

“You weren’t here when I was born?” you asked, your voice filled with outrage.

I shook my head. “No, I wasn’t.”

Naturally, the follow-up question was, “Why?”

I gave you the short and sweet version: your mom and I were living in a small apartment in downtown Fredericton when she told me she was pregnant. So, I decided to get a job with the railroad because it paid well and would give us a chance to get a house—to start life like a proper family. But that meant training in Winnipeg for the entire summer of 2017, which is when you were born. I came back on August 4th and nervously held you for the first time.

There are parts I left out, for what I think are obvious reasons, but I’ll tell you now because if—or when—you read this, you’ll be older.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I freaked out. As much as I’d love to say I was a man, that I stood up and instantly came up with a solution, I didn’t. I didn’t want to have a kid at that point—I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. I was still infatuated with a self-serving world that featured only one main character: me.

I wanted to be a rock star. You might laugh when you find some of my old songs on Sound cloud and ask, “You seriously thought these would propel you to rock stardom?”

I won’t get offended. I’ll probably laugh too and tell you, “Yes, I did.” Your late teens and early twenties can be a time of massive overconfidence—the end of feeling invincible. Today, I can’t write a single song I’d feel comfortable sharing with the world. I ask myself all the time, what happened? I used to get up and play in front of drunk frat boys. Now, I can barely sing in front of your mother. Tough but true.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I remember it clearly—or at least the memories feel clear. Whether they’re 100% factual, I can’t say, but I’ll tell it the way I remember.

I was coming home from work at the lumber yard—or possibly another job—and your mom was sitting in our bedroom on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets. She looked pale and frightened, and I suppose I already knew what she was going to say. When she told me, I flew off the handle. I think I even left. Not my proudest moment, but I eventually came to my senses.

I grabbed a coffee downtown and thought about everything. The small apartment that seemed fine for two poor students—or recent graduates—felt woefully inadequate for a child. Drug addicts lived in the adjacent apartment, and it wasn’t unusual to see syringes littering the steps and parking lot. The thought of rolling you in a stroller through that mess, past the high hellos, made tears well up in my eyes. I felt like I’d failed you before you were even born.

Looking back, I was overthinking. We could have made it work for a little while until we came up with a plan.

Instead, I decided to pursue a career I’d been running for my entire life: the railroad. It ran in the blood of my father, uncle, grandfather, and great-uncle. CN was hiring in my hometown, Campbellton, which seemed unbelievable for a post-industrial town hanging on by the skin of its teeth. But it was true—the men who’d started in the 70s were finally retiring, and a position opened up. I called my father and asked for his help, and he was happy to oblige.

After a few rounds of interviews, I got the job. The training was in Winnipeg for the entire summer.

Your mom and I had many conversations about whether this was the right path. Ultimately, we decided it was. She and her parents would help her move while I was gone. When my training was over, we’d settle in Bathurst. New house, new son, new job. It was a lot, but we made it work... for a little while.

(For the record, we moved to Bathurst because getting hired in Campbellton meant working in Miramichi as well. To avoid hotel rooms, I traveled between the two.)

Sociopath

“Peek-a-boo,” I say, leaning over your tablet. You’re in bed, and you smile—that sweet, innocent smile.

“Peek-a-boo,” I say again, and this time, you swing the tablet up with all your strength and

smash me in the lip. Jesus, it hurts.

“Zoey, good lord. That hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

Nice, the sociopath stage—when does this end?

Motorcycle

I’m prone to back spasms. Sometimes they hurt so much I can barely breathe. So, I lay on the bed on my stomach while you both brush your teeth.

From around the corner, I hear you, Zoey. “Lukas, let’s play motorcycle.” And before I can protest, you both run in, jumping on my back with reckless abandon. It hurts, and your mom calls out, “Kids, get off your daddy. You’re hurting him.”

Can you guess what you say, Zoey?

If you guessed, I don’t care, you’d be right.

It hurts—neither of you are light—but I sway back and forth, back and forth, until I swing you off me. You both laugh and naturally shout, “Again!” before jumping right back on.

“Daddy’s back hurts,” I say.

“Again! Again!” you both chant.

Your mom laughs. And so, we go again.

Magic

You both like reading. Please, don’t stop. The world is fast—Jesus, it moves fast, and I feel it myself. There’s an anxiety in just sitting, breathing and telling yourself to slow down. I went to see Kevin Costner’s Horizon, and I could feel it. I’m so used to grabbing my phone from my pocket every ten seconds that sitting in a theater by myself, in the dark, with no phone and no distractions was hard. I hated it, because it never used to be hard.

But reading slows the world down. It lets you take in information at your own pace. And when you find a book that completely pulls you out of your own reality—well, you’ve just discovered magic.

As you go through the public school system, you’ll probably lose some of your love for reading. If it’s anything like when I was growing up, you’ll be force-fed old classics. You’ll be made to dissect themes, motifs, antagonists, protagonists—all of that—and it will almost certainly take some of the joy out of reading. You might even start thinking there aren’t any books beyond the so-called classics. I know I was assigned Jane Eyre so many times that I became convinced every book was written the same way.

But my parents were both avid readers, and they assured me there was nothing quite like a good book. They gave me some great places to start. So, I’ll do the same for you.

First, I need to tell you how reading saved me during a time when my mind was getting blacker and blacker. We were broke, and COVID was making it nearly impossible to find another job. I’d made some bad choices, and I was sinking into a depression unlike anything I’d ever experienced. (I’ll get to that later on.)

Reading brought me back to the land of the living. There was a used bookstore on St. Peter Street where books were either $1 or $2. I found some of the greatest books I’ve ever read there—magic for $1. (You can also visit your local library, where they rent out magic for free.)

Here are some of your old man’s favorites (in no particular order):

Stephen King – The Stand

Philip Roth – American Pastoral

Tim O’Brien – The Things They Carried

Dennis Lehane – The Given Day

Frank Herbert – Dune

John Steinbeck – East of Eden

Ernest Hemingway – For Whom the Bell Tolls

I hope you both keep reading so that one day, you can share your favorites with me.

It’s magic, I tell you. Magic.

Larries

Don’t ask me how this started, because my answer won’t go further than, “I have no idea.” But beers in this house are known as larries. Your mom and I even call each other Larry from time to time. Again, I can’t remember the origins of this oddball nickname, but it’s stuck, and like many things in my family, it’s probably not going anywhere. (I got scared of Teen Wolf with Michael J. Fox when I was five years old, and my parents and brother still mention it every chance they get.)

Anyway, Lukas, you’re seven, and Zoey, you just turned five. I don’t hide the fact that I like beer from either of you. Some might question my parenting on that, but I’m a firm believer that alcohol in moderation is nothing to be ashamed of, nor anything I need to hide from you. It’s just a can, after all. What makes alcohol dangerous is the monsters it can bring out, and I assure you—it’s not monsters flowing through my veins when I drink a beer after a long week of work. It’s just calmness. And it’s only light beer, after all.

When I was a boy, my father, brother, and I had music nights in my dad’s man cave in the basement on Fridays and Saturdays. A couple of hours, a couple of times a week—those moments will forever be imprinted in my mind. They’re wonderful memories, and I’m trying to create something similar with you two. You’re not super interested in music yet, especially not mine, but every once in a while, I’ll catch you playing with your toys and swaying to the music like no one’s watching. But I am, and nothing makes me happier.

As a kid, I’d run upstairs to grab two bottles of beer for my dad and race back down with lightning speed. Every once in a while, he’d let me open a cap and take the first drink. It was a different time. I’m sure your mom would murder me—and promptly dispose of the body—if I let you or Zoey drink beer. But those memories are vivid for me. They never fail to bring a smile to my face. I can feel it now, even as I write this.

Although I don’t let you drink beer, I do ask you and Zoey to grab me a Larry from the fridge. You both love doing it. I don’t know why, but I remember feeling the same way when I did it for my dad. There’s something about it that makes you feel older, like a grown-up. And you’re both certainly at an age where wanting to feel grown-up is at the forefront of your minds. I remember that feeling well. (You hate it when I call you my little babies.)

I suppose I’m writing this because I’m a beer drinker. So, is your uncle—so is your grandfather. And I’ve never been present at a moment where beer turned frightening or made El Padre lay his hands on me or your uncle. For me, beer is a working-class drink, something you earn through a hard week of work. I’m not trying to promote it. If you never want to taste beer in your life, that’s perfectly fine. I just want you to know that I have it under control. For me, it’s just something to enjoy with a movie or a great album. It’s a way to unwind.

(Although, I suppose all addicts say the same thing. But I’m not an addict. Or am I? Just kidding. Oh, and by the way, grab your old man a Larry, please?)

Relics

The world is constantly changing. And at some point, a person stops flowing with the times. Your current dries up. You’re completely unaware of when this happens, but somewhere along the line, it does.

Every generation comes with its own difficulties, and no matter how much you want to relate to your kids, there will always be differences. Sometimes, those differences are so massive that the void can rip a person apart. But other times—and I hope this will be our case—they’re just things to laugh about. Oh, Dad. People don’t say that anymore. Something like that. Hopefully.

I can’t begin to imagine I’ll understand everything you’re going through. All I want you to know is that I’ll keep an open mind, an open heart, and open ears. I’ll give you both my time and my understanding. Because I don’t want you to think of me as a relic. I don’t want you to bury me and forget about me. I don’t want you telling your friends that I’d never understand what you’re going through. I want you to come to me, and I want you to be patient with me, just as I’ll be patient with you.

When the time comes for you to have kids of your own (if you want to), I hope you’ll see that being a parent can mean being a friend. Not always a friend, not a certain type of friend, but a friend nonetheless. Some people don’t believe they can be friends with their parents, and I think that’s bullshit. I agree I can’t always be your friend. There’s a line to be drawn. You’ll need to know I’m a parent first. But when it comes to snacks and movies, books and music, trips and adventures, or whatever else you want, I’ll always want to tag along and be part of it.

I never really went through the embarrassed-of-my-parents phase like so many of my friends did. I was always happy to have them around, and I hope you’ll always want me around too. (I promise not to invade your space... too much.)

Come to me. Don’t let me become a relic.

Moments

As you get older, life becomes harder in certain ways, but in others, you become more conscious of the hard work you put in. High school can be tough, but when you study your ass off for that test and get a good mark, it feels pretty damn good. When you work hard and get the call that you’re starting in the next ball game, it feels incredible. And so on, and so on. These moments feel big. They stop you in your tracks and make you sit back and think, Wow, this is really great.

Perhaps part of the difficulty for your generation is all the doom and gloom on social media. It’s tough because it’s everywhere, and it’s hard to escape. But don’t be fooled—there will be moments in life when those good chemicals are flowing through your brain at a rapid speed. Those feelings will keep you hungry for more of them. And a healthy focus is the key to a happy life. (Though I still struggle with focus to this day. Case in point: this book, which I’ve started and stopped 500 times this year. But hey, a good point is a good point, whether or not I’ve followed my own advice to a T.)

There are a few moments like that in my young life. Many more involve you two, but I want to point out some great ones from before I had kids. I hope you read this before you have kids of your own, because a full book about how life sucked before kids might not keep you engaged. So, let me tell you about some of those moments.

One of them was playing my first gig by myself—just me and my acoustic guitar. I’d played a few shows with a buddy before. He sang, and I played guitar, but this time it was just me. A hurdle I seriously didn’t think I’d get over.

It was early winter, and I was standing outside an apartment building in Fredericton called Princess Place, where I lived with your uncle. I want to say it was early 2015, but it could’ve been 2014. I was wearing a faux leather jacket with a plaid shirt underneath (a la Springsteen in ’78—we’ll talk about him more in another chapter). I’d rented a beautiful Taylor acoustic guitar from Long and McQuade, and it sat in a leather case, firmly in my hands.

The wind was howling viciously off the river. In a few years, that same wind would make me want to die, but at this point, I didn’t care. I was waiting for a cab to climb the icy hill and take me to my two-hour show at Ringo’s Bar and Grill uptown.

I was shivering, but I felt like a rock star. Because for everything else in life, I was doing something many others never do. How many great musicians are out there, sitting in their basements, too scared to unveil their craft to an audience? I wanted to do it. Before the show, my father said something like this to me:

“Hey! No matter what happens, you should be proud of yourself. Just getting up there is a huge accomplishment. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

The show itself was fine. I made it through the two-hour set with no major hiccups. But the show isn’t the memory. The memory is the calm before the storm. The waiting. The sense of doing something important. Something that would propel me in other areas of life. That was one of those moments.

Another moment was a few years earlier, at the start of university. It was the first week in my dorm room at Rigby Hall. I was rooming with a buddy of mine, and though the happiness wouldn’t last long—soon replaced by a period of confusion and struggle—at that moment, it was perfect.

We were throwing a football in front of our room, the early fall sun beating down on us. A pretty blonde girl was in the room next door—tall, with an infectious smile. (Hope your mom doesn’t read this part.) We’d become fast friends.

Inside our room, my buddy and I ate pizza until the boxes were stacked to the ceiling. We drank beer and watched TV. One evening, I went to bed and rolled over to face the wall. I couldn’t stop smiling. Friends, girls, a new life, a new me—it was all wonderful. That was one of those moments.

And the last one—for this chapter, at least—was winning the provincial title in basketball in 2010.

The game was neck and neck, and we managed to pull out a win. The crowd was huge. When the buzzer sounded, we jumped on each other and cheered. Cheerleaders jumped on us too. It was perfect. But that wasn’t the moment.

The moment was when your uncle came down, and we high-fived. It was the perfect slap. I did it. It was one of those moments.

Those moments are scattered throughout everyday life. Don’t search for them—let them come to you. And when they do, try your best to freeze time.

Heart

“What do you want to be when you get older?” I ask Lukas.

The grin on your face tells me you’re not going to give me a real answer. It’s going to be something ridiculous, and you prove me right.

“I want to be a poop. That poops everywhere.”

“Nice, what do you really want to be?”

“I’m being serious.” You can barely contain your laugh as you say it, and I glance over at your mother and roll my eyes.

Then Zoey, you come out of the bathroom, and I ask, “Zo. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Um. I want to work where Mommy works so I can be with her every day.”

I look over at your mom, and she can barely keep the tears in.

“My heart,” she says.

Confusion

Life, above all else, is confusing. You’re still at an age where you can do whatever you want. You can change paths a thousand times and still end up on the trail that leads you to where you need to be. That feeling can be both exhilarating and overwhelming.

Lukas, over the past few years, this is how the conversation about what you want to be has gone:

“Hey, buddy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Spiderman.”

The following year:

“Pikachu.”

The next year:

“A police officer.”

And now, as I mentioned in the previous chapter:

“A poop. That poops on everything.” (Cue eye roll.)

Of course, no matter what you do (except for becoming a poop), I’ll be proud of you. In my heart, I’d love for you to pursue something creative. Become some kind of artist, because when you create, your eyes light up, you become hyper-focused, and it’s wonderful to watch.

In fact, you and your sister are the reason I’m writing this book. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time but kept putting off. Sometimes that light in my own eyes dims, and I give in to the exhaustion of life. But you both help me get it back. This time, I’m staying hyper-focused on this project until it’s finished.

Zoey, you’re no innocent bystander when it comes to the poop and pee jokes. The other night, when I asked you what you wanted for supper, you replied, “Poop. And to drink pee.” You burst into laughter like it was the greatest joke ever told.

But when I asked what you wanted to be when you are grown up, you gave me a more serious answer.

First, it was a princess. Now, you want to work on nails with your mom.

You love getting your nails done, and you’ve done your mother’s nails many times. You’ve even done mine. You’re vibrant and drawn to colors that pop. I hope you find a life filled with all the colors of the rainbow. I hope you keep that light in your eyes. I’m going to do everything I can to ensure that you do. Both of you.

Now, let me tell you a little bit about my path. Where I thought I’d end up and where I actually did. I’ll tell you one thing—it wasn’t a straight line. It was filled with detours, roadblocks, and technical malfunctions. So many, you wouldn’t believe it. You might even think what I’m writing is fiction, but I assure you, it isn’t.

I grew up in a time when older generations often worked the same job for the same company their entire lives. There’s something noble in that, I think, but it’s a bygone world. I certainly don’t expect you to find a job at 18 and stick with it until you’re 65.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll feel a certain weariness at the prospect of being tied down. It might be fine for a year or two, but eventually, you’ll start to feel a sense of dread—or something close to it. Maybe not dread exactly, but the fear that this is your life now. That all you’ve done, and all you’ll ever do, is stand on a production line at a sawmill in the middle of the boonies on the graveyard shift. (Yup, I spent countless nights doing that.)

It’s a hard feeling. A sinking feeling. Because I was once just a kid standing with my guitar in my hand as the river howled. I was the kid running across the Van Horne Bridge in the late hours of the night to see a girl who wanted nothing more than to see my face. I was the kid sitting against the fence at the skatepark, drinking chocolate milk with a basketball between my legs, dreaming of Europe, dreaming of college, dreaming of the pros.

The same thing happened to my father, though, and eventually, acceptance has to find you. Either that, or you become so driven that there’s no plan B—just your dreams and nothing else. Unfortunately for me, I was never that driven. I’m as indecisive as they come.

Here’s a timeline to showcase my indecisive nature, so you never feel bad about not knowing what you want in life:

2011: Graduate high school. Attend university in Fredericton in the fall. Feel lonely and move back to Campbellton to chase a girlfriend.

2012: Live in Campbellton with my grandmother while your grandparents are in Montreal. Work at Dollarama then quit and got a job at Kent Building Supplies in the garden center. In the fall, moved back to Fredericton with my then-girlfriend. Big mistake.

2013: Work with your uncle setting up sporting events. Things fell apart, and by the end of the year, I lost my mind and moved to Montreal to live with my parents. At the time, I have no intention of ever returning to New Brunswick.

2014: Meet your mom while working at Tim Hortons. Move in with my brother. Her first words to me? “Are you stupid?” (Not quite a Hollywood romance.) My girlfriend and I break up, and I start writing songs. Music doesn’t pan out, but writing sparks something inside me.

2015: Your mom and I move in together. I quit Tim Hortons, and she goes to aesthetics school. I got a job at Kent's lumber yard, met great friends, and kept playing music.

2016: Graduate University. Your mom graduates from aesthetics school. The future looks bright. She becomes pregnant with you, Lukas—a true blessing that doesn’t feel like one at first.

2017: Start working for the railroad. Lukas is born, and I return to a new home, a new son, and a new job.

2018 – After a long period of training, I finally started making money with the railroad. With dollar signs in my eyes, I decide to buy a big house on a hill overlooking a golf course. It’s beautiful—but it turns into a nightmare beyond belief before too long.

2019 – Railroad life is harder than I ever imagined. I’m missing too much time with Lukas, and when I am home, I’m too tired to be present. It’s not the life I want. Late in the year, Zoey, you’re born. You’re so beautiful, and this time I don’t miss a moment. I was there the whole time, and I even cut the umbilical cord. I love you to death.

2020 – I hit my breaking point and quit CN early in the year—a decision that will haunt me. A few weeks later, the world was on shut down with a little pandemic known as COVID. Work everywhere freezes. Our days of financial stability are over. The seclusion, combined with financial strain, puts me in the worst mental place I’ve ever been. Absolute horror. I feel trapped. What next?

In the fall, I finally say enough is enough and take a job at an industrial laundry. I load stinky clothes from a pot plant in Campbellton into an industrial washer and fold uniforms. It’s not exactly a step up. Meanwhile, your mom, after being a stay-at-home mom for a few years, gets a job at Dollarama to help keep us afloat.

2021 – I get a call from the sawmill in Belledune. By now, I’m exhausted from switching jobs. My head is in a better place, but it’s still not completely right. Your mom and I talk in bed about what’s best, and at that moment, what’s best is money. We need it, and the mill pays more. So, I leave yet another job and head out on the highway once again.

2022 – I’m placed on the labor pool at the mill, working the graveyard shift. My routine is grueling: I work all week, come home Friday morning, sleep for three hours, and then, get up as your mom heads out to work for the entire weekend. We barely see each other.

But we finally managed to escape the financial burden of the big house. We find a smaller, more affordable home downtown, and things begin to stabilize. Then, a surprising opportunity comes—a job as a reporter at the local newspaper. It feels like a dream, and though I’ve worked hard to get where I am at the mill, I can’t resist. I put in my notice and took the reporter position. It seems like a turning point—until the paper lays me off after just three months.

2023 – I become a stay-at-home dad for a while, and Zoey, and we bond like never before. I take you to playgroups, we bake together, and we hang out. It’s wonderful. But after a few months, I know I need to go back to work. I reached out to a man I interviewed during my short time at the newspaper, and he decided to take a chance on me and hire me.

2024 – For the first time in years, life feels normal. No sudden changes. No upheaval. Just stability.

Life is confusing. I’m still battling it. So, don’t ever feel bad when you’re unsure of where you’re going or how you’ll get there.

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Title: Snapshots

Genre: Nonfiction/Memoir

Age Range: All ages, with a particular focus on young parents and fathers.

Word Count: 20,000

Author Name: Eric Johnson

Why It’s a Good Fit

Snapshots offers a unique and deeply personal perspective on parenting through the eyes of a young father raising two children. It delivers a heartfelt, relatable, and unfiltered look at the everyday moments that make family life both challenging and extraordinary.

Hook

A deeply personal and heartfelt exploration of parenting, Snapshots doesn’t shy away from the raw, unvarnished truths of fatherhood while celebrating its beauty and humor.

Synopsis

Snapshots is a heartfelt and candid journey through the joys and challenges of parenthood, marriage, and self-discovery. Told as a love letter to his children, the author shares a series of deeply personal vignettes that blend humor, vulnerability, and wisdom into a touching tapestry of family life. Through his honest storytelling, Eric Johnson captures the magic in ordinary moments and offers readers a glimpse into the transformative power of love and resilience.

Target Audience

Fathers seeking relatable parenting narratives.

Readers who enjoy memoirs or vignette-style storytelling.

Mothers and families looking for heartfelt, humorous reflections on family life.

Millennials and young adults navigating parenthood and personal growth.

Bio

Eric Johnson is the author of There’s Gold In Those Hills. Based in Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada, he lives with his wife and two children. A former reporter, Eric now works in Marketing, drawing inspiration from both careers to fuel his storytelling. His writing is marked by honesty, relatability, and a passion for capturing the small yet meaningful moments of life.

Platform

As a young father actively raising two children, Eric offers a fresh and relatable voice. While he is in the process of building a website and author page, he plans to promote his work through local events and social media, focusing on connecting with parenting communities and memoir enthusiasts.

Education

Eric holds a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in Communications and English.

Personality/Writing Style

Eric’s writing is honest, down-to-earth, and unembellished, capturing the beauty and messiness of life with humor and warmth.

Interests and Hobbies

When not writing, Eric enjoys playing guitar, reading, watching movies, and spending time with his children.

Hometown

Campbellton, New Brunswick, Canada

Age: 31

At the end of the day, this is about love. I love both of you more than you’ll ever truly understand. My hope is that by reading these stories, you laughed, reflected, and maybe came to a different understanding of who I am as a person—maybe even a better one, a closer one.

From the moment you came into my life, I knew that you both had to be at the center of my writing. For years, I wasn’t sure how to do that. I wove parenting into some of my fiction, and it was fine, but I always felt like I was hiding behind characters, putting on a mask to tell the story. Eventually, I knew I had to stop hiding. I had to write directly about us—me and you—without the filter of fiction. (Though don’t be surprised if I do that again someday. Old habits die hard.)

These stories are imperfect, just like life. They’re snapshots through my eyes, a personalized view of events. So often, the world wants to lump people into groups—into generations, stereotypes, and labels. “These people are tough.” “Those people are soft.” “Everyone born between this year and that year acts this way.” It drives me crazy. Life is never that simple.

I don’t want you to live by anyone else’s definitions. I want you both to be your own people. More than that, I want you to be good people.

Right now, you’re sitting in your pajamas, watching your iPads on a rainy Sunday, and I know that someday, I’ll miss this so much it’ll hurt. I hope that on those days, even when you’re grown and out of the house, we’ll still have a strong foundation. I hope that you’ll always feel you can come to me, and I hope there isn’t a single moment in your life when you doubt how much I love you.

I love you. Every second of my life.

Earlier this year, I was in a state of disrepair. Your mom and I had been arguing a lot, and things felt dismal—like there might not be a light at the end of the tunnel.

On Boxing Day, I found myself staring at the pictures you both had drawn for me that I’d hung on the wall. Lukas, there was the picture of you in a rocket ship with the words, I love you to the moon, and a little drawing of your face in the rocket. Zoey, there was your list of favorite things about me written on Popsicle sticks.

You were both on the floor playing with Lego, and after some time, I mustered the strength to get down there with you and play.

Your mom was upstairs. We’d just had a heavyweight bout, and for the first time, I was sure this was it—she was going to leave. As I watched you two play, I pictured the house empty, just me in it, with the unbearable silence. I thought I’d go mad.

But your mom stayed. And while the wounds didn’t heal instantly, we’re still here, still together. Still trying.

There was a day around that time when I was home alone. I don’t remember where everyone was, but the house was quiet, and I was alone with my thoughts. I knew I had to call my father. He and I hadn’t had many serious conversations about marriage or life, but I knew he’d gone through similar struggles with my mom. If anyone would understand, it would be him.

I paced around the house, the phone in my hand, weighing the decision. Finally, I dialed his number. He was at work, and at first, we joked around as we always did. But eventually, I just came out and said it:

“I don’t know what to do. We can’t stop fighting, and I feel like I’m going to lose her.”

We talked for an hour. He listened, shared, and reassured me. When I hung up, I felt better. The problems weren’t solved, but the weight was lighter.

I want you both to know that talking to your parents doesn’t have to be hard. I’ve made it hard for myself at times, and I don’t entirely know why. Maybe it’s pride, maybe its fear. But every single time I’ve swallowed that fear and reached out, the world felt greener, and calmer. I want that for you, too.

The trouble with living inside our own heads is that we convince ourselves no one understands. We think our burdens are ours alone. But the truth is, most people do understand—maybe not the exact situation, but the feelings are often the same.