I Was Afraid He Would Forget Me

Andrew learns about loving loudly

The other morning I got the following text from Zade, my seven-year-old: “I love you daddy. And Corrigan. You guys are the best. I think you are one of the best people.”

Zade and my wife Erica were at her parents for a few days, but before they left, he told me he stashed a goodbye note for his younger brother on top of their bookcase. It was a note to remind Corr that he loves him. And then he said, "I was afraid Corrigan would forget me."

He said it so sincerely that I couldn't help but break into a smile—of course Corr won't forget him. They fight and snuggle and play nearly every day.

But sometimes it can be hard to trust a smile.

The robot in me wanted to understand, and as a student of trauma I was suddenly on edge—what if Zade fears Corrigan's forgetting because that's the lesson he learned when his older brother and sister abruptly departed last winter? What if Erica and I gambled away Zade’s emotional security and secure attachment when we decided to adopt Rana and Hiroshi back in 2018? What if he feels love keenly but has prematurely inherited an adult's perspective of finitude and impermanence?

The three hundred heart emojis I received just then made me hope that something else was at play, that this was more about his age, his personality, and his current environment, that we have a kid who loves well and that I can safely embrace that.

I don't quite know how to handle the sweetness, but I plan to soak it up and save it for the hard times.

And to learn.

Because Zade reminds me that it feels good to be loved. To name it. It feels good to be loved and to love loudly and without qualification.