The air brakes hiss for the last time. 400 miles. 8 hours. The mission has reached its destination.
The first thing I do when I step off that cramped bus is stretch. I pull my stiff limbs apart, feeling every mile in my joints. Then, I head straight for the Golden Arches.
Morning Mac.
I never eat McDonald’s in my daily life—I’m too busy eating “medicine” (Natto and bananas) to keep my engine running. But on this morning, that Sausage McMuffin is the greatest meal on earth. It’s brain fuel. It’s the final charge before I see their faces.
Then, the moment arrives.
I’ve made a promise to my two boys. Every time we move, I carry them on my shoulders. I see other kids looking at them, and I know my boys want that same view. I told them: “I will carry you until you tell me to stop. Even when you’re grown, I’m your floor and your tower.”
People see a man carrying two growing boys and think it looks heavy. They don’t understand. Their weight is my strength. Their satisfaction is my peace of mind.
In those moments, the 400 miles of exhaustion, the 10-square-meter dorm, and the four jobs all disappear. There is no distance. There is no “divorce.” There is only the family I refuse to turn my back on.
I’m not just a father. I’m the one who carries them.
Catch you at the finish line.
