On my wife’s birthday, I gifted her a Titanic DVD, thinking it was a romantic choice. Our three-year-old, Max, asked to watch it, but I said it was for grown-ups. At preschool, he announced, “Mommy and Daddy watch Titanic alone because it’s for adults,” sparking laughter and confusion. His teacher, amused, clarified it was the ship movie. My wife found it hilarious, but Max grew fascinated with the real Titanic, asking about its sinking and building ocean liners with Duplos.
One night, Max said, “You and Mommy didn’t see your iceberg,” referring to his unexpected pregnancy. It hit hard—we’d been rushing through life, disconnected. That sparked an honest talk. We made changes: I cut work emails, she painted again, we prioritized walks and each other.
Max’s curiosity evolved—dinosaurs, volcanoes, then deeper questions about life. At nine, in Halifax, he studied a Titanic exhibit intensely, later watching the movie with us, noting, “They were too proud.” He wrote, “Even the largest ships need to be humble.”
By thirteen, Max mentored others, thanked me for staying, and studied psychology in college. At graduation, he gave us the same Titanic DVD with a note thanking us for steering through life’s icebergs. We watched it, reflecting on our journey—humble, connected, and grateful.
