Page 15 of From Maybe to Baby

Found Genny's childhood journal while cleaning. Want it?

Yes. No. Can I let you know?

Some memories are too heavy to make quick decisions about.

The binder is still in my hands, full of plans and memories we never got to keep. I should put it away. Focus on packing, on planning, on all the practical things that keep my little family moving forward.

Instead, I flip to the last page. There's a note there, in Genny's handwriting, likely a quote she saw somewhere that she liked:

Perfect moments aren't planned, they're lived. Let them be messy. Let them be real. Let them surprise you.

At the time, she wasn't writing about anything in particular, and certainly not about me sitting here two years later trying to figure out how to pack for a trip without her. Did she know I’d someday need this?

"Daddy?"

I look up to find Lukas in Jace’s doorway, clutching his blanket. "Hey, buddy. Bad dream?"

He nods, then spots the binder. "Is that Mommy's book?"

"Yeah." I whisper, hoping we don’t wake Jace. "Want to help me look at it?"

He climbs into my lap, the bed bouncing from our weight. Jace stirs and smacks her lips but never wakes. "Can we make new pictures? For Mommy's book?" he asks.

My throat tightens. "You want to make new vacation pictures?"

"Yeah." He yawns. "But no scary Goofy this time."

I laugh, surprising myself. "Deal. No more scary Goofy."

"Promise?"

"Promise." I kiss the top of his head. "Just fish this time. And volcanoes."

He perks up. "Like Finding Nemo?"

"Like Finding Nemo." I close the binder gently. "But first, sleep."

As I pick him up to go back to bed, the decision feels different now—heavier, but clearer. It’s not because Gloria keeps nagging about work-life balance or because some PR spreadsheet says family vacations are good optics. And it’s not even because the kids deserve new memories—though they do.

It’s because the house feels too quiet at night. Because every corner of it echoes with plans we never got to keep. Because maybe, just maybe, if I stop holding so tight onto what we lost, I might actually make room for what’s still here.

Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s imperfect. Sometimes, the only way forward is to pack a bag and go looking for it.

"And then Mickey waved at me, 'member Dad? 'Member when Mickey waved?"

Lukas is providing a running commentary on what he remembers of last year's Disney trip, complete with sound effects. How he remembers the one good moment but not the three hours of tears that followed is beyond me.

"I remember, buddy." I hoist him up on my shoulders and grab the book to put it away for safe-keeping. “Mickey was very friendly."

"Can I have a glass of water?" Jace sits up, rubbing her eyes.

Great. Now everybody’s awake.

"Dad, let’s see the Mickey video," Lukas asks, squirming out of my hold. “On your phone, Dad. Show Jace. She was so little.”

"Yeah. Daddy's phone," she says, already diving for my device.

“Not the Goofy part,” Lukas warns.

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