Maddox and I talk about it sometimes—what kind of parents we’ll be. It usually ends with him tearing up and me pretending not to cry because my hormones are a war crime. But it always comes back to the same thing. He’ll never have to wonder if he’s too much. He’ll never have to tiptoe around his feelings or mold himself into someone else’s version of lovable. He’ll be wild and soft and loud and angry and beautiful, and we’ll love every version of him. We’ll love him when he gets it wrong. When he breaks things. When he forgets to clean his room or fails a test or comes home with a scraped knee
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