Dear George, Fritz, and Hazel,
Your mom turns 48 today.
That number caught me off guard, not because 48 sounds old, but because 24 feels like it was five minutes ago. That’s how old she was the first time we celebrated her birthday together, back on June 26th, 2001. We’d been dating for ten months, and I had it all planned out.
I drove out to Hinsdale before sunrise to pick her up for work. I brought her coffee just how she liked it, a card, and a birthday present sitting shotgun. That morning, instead of hopping on our usual separate trains, we rode in together on the Eisenhower, side by side. Watching the early morning sun dazzle behind the skyline.
We worked on the bond floor of the Chicago Board of Trade that day, and after the market closed, we sat outside on the biergarten at Ceres, letting the day settle. The sun caught your mom’s face in a way I’ll never forget, making her squint and smile all at once.
That night we met PopPop and JoJo at Butterfield. It was the first of what I thought would be many birthdays together.
I didn’t know how long we’d last. I just knew I wanted to grow older with your mommy.
The last birthday we shared was her 40th on June 26th, 2017. We went out with one of my buddies and one of her girlfriends, both stood next to us at our wedding. None of us knew it then, but that would be the last birthday dinner your mom and I would ever share together. The last dinner period.
Romance has a funny way of coming in like thunder and going out like a soft rain. We won’t light candles on the same birthday cake anymore. We won’t take those early morning drives into Chicago anymore. However, that doesn’t mean our love has completely vanished. It just changed shape and became the three of you.
Your mom has known me for half of her life. I won’t know her for half of my life until I turn 68. Maybe I’ll get there and we will be friends again? Maybe we won’t. All that matters is that we love you three pain in the ass cheeks...
But what I do know is this:
every laugh,
every fight,
every diaper change
every quiet cup of coffee we shared gave way to something far greater. The three of you.
Love,
Dad
