Things My Son Needs to Know about the World

by Fredrik Backman

To my son: I want to apologize. For everything I’m going to do over the next eighteen or so years. For everything I’ll miss. Everything I won’t understand. All the notes about parent-teacher conferences you won’t want to show me. For all the times I’ll embarrass you. All the camps and field trips I’ll volunteer myself to. All the girlfriends or boyfriends you’ll never want to bring home for dinner. For doing my mom-was-wrong-and-dad-was-right dance around other people. For that time when your school invites all the parents to a softball tournament and I take it a bit too seriously. For calling your math teacher “a frikkin’ flathead!” For trying to high-five your friends. For buying a minivan. For wearing shorts. For being late the first time you’re invited to a real birthday party. For being pissed when there are lines for the rides at the amusement park. For calling the assistant in the skateboard shop “man.” For not understanding that you would rather do gymnastics than play soccer. For all the times I forget to lock the bathroom door—what is seen can’t be unseen. For the holidays. The cowboy hat. The REAL MEN WEIGH OVER 200 POUNDS T-shirt. The speech at your high school graduation party. For all the times I get a bit drunk and start telling the joke about the two Irishmen in a boat again. I really, really want to apologize for all those things. But when you’re the most angry at me, I want you to try to remember that, to me, you’ll always be the tiny one-year-old boy sta...

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