46. Mateo
MATEO
No one prepares you for the day you're supposed to walk your kid to the front doors of an elementary school and let go of his hand.
“Daddy,” Crew whines, and he tries to pull his hand out of mine.
I hold tight, and it makes him laugh.
“Daddy, I got to go,” he says between giggles.
But I still don’t let go.
“Oh, so now that you’re a big ol’ five-year-old, you’re the one who tells me what to do?” I tease, reaching down to tickle his ribs with my other hand, basking in his laughter.
Isn’t this supposed to be the moment he’s holding my legs, hiding behind me, telling me he doesn't want to go?
Of course my kid is the one who is more excited to go to school than when I tried to bribe him into starting Kindergarten a year later.
Granted, that wouldn’t have been the most responsible parenting move—and Talia and Emerson would be the first ones to tell me how ridiculous of an idea it is.
But seriously?
How did we get here so fast?
It feels like yesterday I was rocking him in my arms, listening to his breathing as he slept on my chest, feeling love I didn’t know was even possible.
And now he’s standing here, wearing a backpack that looks too big for his shoulders, ready to walk into a building where I won’t be the person he looks for first.
That’s the part no one tells you about.
Everyone talks about the first day of school like it’s a milestone for the kid. The pictures. The school supplies. The excitement. The first steps into a classroom.
But no one really prepares you for what it feels like as a parent.
Because for him, this is the beginning of something new.
For me, it’s a reminder that every year from here on out, he’s going to need me a little less.
And I know that’s the goal. I know I’m supposed to raise him to be confident enough to walk through those doors without me. I know I’m supposed to be proud that he’s excited, that he’s curious, that he’s ready.
But there’s still a part of me that wants to keep holding his hand for just a little longer.
Not because I don’t think he can do it.
Because I know he can.
“Daddy,” he says again, laughing as he tries one more time to escape my grip. “I need to go line up.”
“Come on, Matty. You heard him,” Talia says, lightly bumping her shoulder with mine before she leans her head on Daniel’s shoulder.
I finally loosen my fingers.
Not because I’m ready.
But because he is.
Talia and Daniel kneel, opening their arms to Crew, wishing him good luck.
We’re surrounded by dozens of families doing the same as the Kindergarten teachers hold up signs with their names to make sure all the kids get to the right place.
How the hell do I have a Kindergartener?
I barely made it through Crew’s birthday last weekend. He’s an August baby, just barely five, and I think I cried five different times.
Emerson had tissues in her pocket, ready to pull out throughout the day—when he opened his first present, when he blew out his candles, when he posed for a picture next to the superhero banner Emerson made for him.
It was all the little moments that got me.
The way he ran into the room in the morning already excited, the way he studied every gift before tearing into it, the way he proudly showed everyone each new toy like it was the greatest thing he had ever seen.
He wore his superhero shirt, ran around with his friends, laughed until he was out of breath, and spent the entire day soaking up every bit of attention that came his way.
There were pictures in front of the decorations, cake smeared across his face, my entire house full of kids running around, and a five-year-old who was absolutely convinced it was the best day ever.
And somehow, somewhere between the candles, the pictures, and watching him celebrate with everyone who loves him, I found myself reaching for a tissue again—or maybe I was just reaching for Emerson.
“I hope you have the best first day of school,” Talia says as Crew stands in front of her, bouncing up and down on his toes, ready to bolt into the school at any moment, his pink cast covered in signatures from the last few weeks.
“I will, Mommy,” he says, and she leans in to kiss him on the cheek as Daniel ruffles his hair.
I feel Emerson’s hand on my arm, her body pressing against me. “I never took you for a helicopter parent, rockstar,” she teases, whispering in my ear.
“You’re telling me,” I say on a sigh.
Ever since the day we visited her mom, it’s safe to say that Emerson has been fighting an uphill battle. And I’ve been there for her every step of the way.
The last month has been a mix of good days and hard ones. Some mornings she wakes up and seems like herself—laughing, making plans, getting excited about the little things.
Other days, it feels like the smallest reminder can knock the wind out of her. A song, a memory, a conversation, or even a quiet moment when she has too much space to think can bring everything rushing back.
There have been days when she’s exhausted, not from anything specific, but I think just from carrying the emotions she can’t always put into words.
And there are days where she’s frustrated that grief doesn’t follow any kind of timeline.
But she’s back in therapy consistently now, and it has made a noticeable difference.
Having a place to process everything, unpack the harder moments, and learn how to ride the waves instead of fighting against them has helped her keep her head above water.
I didn’t know she had started therapy when we were on a break from tour back in the winter, and I definitely didn’t know she was missing sessions once we started back up again.
I try to remind myself that I couldn’t have made her go.
I couldn’t force her to ask for help or decide she was ready before she was.
That choice had to come from her. But I still can’t help feeling a little guilty—wondering if I should have noticed, if there were signs I missed, or if there was something I could have done differently.
But all that matters now is that she’s putting the work in, and I’m here for her.
Every step of the way.
Crew turns to me and Emerson, and we both kneel to his level.
“Have the best first day of school, buddy,” I say, mirroring his mom’s words as I wrap my arms around him.
“I will,” he says before he leans back. I hold out my fist, and he pounds his against it.
“I love you, Crew.” There’s a crack in my voice, but we all pretend not to hear it.
“I love you, Daddy.” He pulls me in for one more quick hug before he turns to Emerson.
He looks at her, a wide grin on his face.
She grabs his face in her hands, squishing his cheeks as she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Knock ‘em dead.” She stands up, holding her hands up, just high enough for him to need to jump to give her a double high-five. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
Crew nods, taking a few steps back. The four of us wave at him, but his eyes are still on Emerson as he turns around and heads to his teacher.
He makes it one more step before he’s turning around, running straight towards Emerson and throwing his hands around her legs.
Emerson places her hands on his back, trying her best to hug him back from where she’s standing.
“Love you, Ems,” he says.
I hear Emerson’s sharp intake, her breath catching in her throat.
It’s like time stands still, the entire world pausing around the two of them.
Crew looks up, his arms still around her. She grabs his face in her hands again, bending down to press their noses together. “I love you more, champ.”