R: A motivational thing for work. Which I should probably get back to. Talk soon?

M: Absolutely. And for the record . . .

M: Football is like life—it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, sacrifice, dedication, and respect for authority.

R: What’s that?

M: A perseverance quote from Vince Lombardi. Personally, I think the other one sounds more like what you’re looking for, but I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to meet your expectations.

R: You’re kinda amazing, you know that?

M: I know. And also, my Google skills are stellar. Top-notch.

R: Goofball.

M: You’re pretty amazing too.

I shift back to my afternoon of work, but the truth is my eyes keep drifting to my phone, looking for that green dot to show up next to Rachel’s name. How is it that in just three days I’ve come to look for that little dot so damn much?

By evening, we’re messaging nonstop. Chattering about our days in broad terms, talking about favorite television shows while we watch some God-awful semi-reality thing she enjoys, and later . . .

R: It’s getting late, but I don’t want to stop talking.

M: Are you in bed?

R: Yes?

I wouldn’t mind taking things up a notch in intensity, but that question mark tells me everything I need to know about where Rachel’s head is on that subject. It’s fast, and we’re still getting to know each other. So instead of going to a hotter, sexier place, I pivot.

M: Want me to tell you a bedtime story?

R: Oh, my God! Yes!

There are six smiley face emojis after that, so I know she’s excited, probably even giddy, about the idea. I smile, trying to think of a good one.

M: Okay, get curled up in bed and dim the light on the phone. If you stop responding, I’ll trust that you’ve gone to sleep, okay?

It’s a moment before she responds.

R: Okay! Teeth brushed, bathroom stop for me and Raffy, back in bed, snug as a bug in a rug with Raffy curled up at my feet. All ready!

She paints an adorably sexy picture. Even though I don’t know what she looks like, I’ve been imagining her more and more. The face is always a blur, but I picture her blonde hair atop a curvy figure, her feet kicking in delight every time she sends multiple smiley faces. I wonder if her breasts are full or small, filling or spilling out of my hands. I wonder if she has freckles that I can trace with my tongue. I wonder if she’s ticklish. For some reason, I feel certain that she is. I wonder if her heart is as genuine as it seems and her mind as quick because she keeps me on my toes, never knowing what she’s going to say. As someone who thrives on structure and needs predictability, that should drive me mad, but I somehow find it amusing and refreshing.

M: Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a vast kingdom with his mother and sister. The boy’s mother worked hard, but times were tough and she often went without so her children would have enough. The siblings saw this and did everything they could to make it easier for their beloved mother, often telling her they weren’t hungry so she would have enough dinner herself.

R: That’s so sad. And sweet of them both, the kids and the mom, looking out for each other. <heart emoji, crying emoji>

M: But it wasn’t all dire straits and meals of cheap rice and beans. The mother was wonderful and would play games with the children every night, even when she was asleep on her feet. Her favorite was hide and seek. Years later, the boy realized it was so the mother could close her eyes for at least thirty seconds while she counted, but at the time, he and his sister didn’t know that. They would run and hide, giggling the whole time. You there?

R: Yes. Please go on.

M: One time, the boy hid in the garden next door. It wasn’t a fancy garden with vegetables but rather an empty lot, overgrown with weeds. The boy ducked down in the grass, curling up as small as he could so he wouldn’t be found. Soon, he heard his sister helping his mother, both of them trying to find him. He shrank back even deeper into the garden, his back against the fence. Still as he could be, the only thing he moved were his eyes. That’s how he saw . . . it. Awake?

R: OMG! Yes! What did he see?!

M: You’re supposed to be relaxing, going to sleep. Maybe this isn’t working?

R: It’s working. It’s totally working. Now tell me what the boy saw! Please!

Another smile takes my lips. I touch that word—please—in her message. It’s not begging. More of a demand, honestly. But I can sense her desire to know me, talk to me. Not some hotshot executive, not some rags to riches story, not the grumpy workaholic. Just me.

That’s why I’m sharing this story with her, though I meant to keep it light and easy. But this? It’s important, it’s where I came from, and I think she knows that too and wants every tidbit she can get from me the same way I’d love to know how she became who she is. What makes someone grow into an adult and still have this exuberant spirit that finds so much joy in life like Rachel does? I want to know, and so I continue my story.

M: The boy saw a brown paper bag lying in the grass. It was crumpled up like someone had thrown their empty lunch sack away, but it was stuck on the fence. Something about the way it didn’t move made the boy think there was something inside. He never told anyone this, but in that moment, he hoped it was food. He was hungry. He was getting older and hungrier all the time, but he would never take food from his mother’s mouth. Desperate as he was, he told himself that if there was a sandwich inside that bag . . . if it didn’t look too bad, he’d eat it and never tell a soul.

R: <crying emoji, sandwich emoji, sandwich emoji, sandwich emoji>

M: But there wasn’t a sandwich in the bag.

I pause, knowing she’s awake because she just sent me the emoji message but wanting to get this next part right. It was the moment that everything changed. Everything. Not in an instant, there was still hard work to be done, but it’d taken the edge off my family’s situation.

R: Mark?

The name, not mine but of this other man I’ve become, is what gives me the strength to tell the rest.

M: I’m here. Just making up the next part of the story.

R: Okay, take your time.

I’m not making up anything. I think she knows that too but is giving me the time and space to decide what I want to divulge.

M: So the boy slowly reaches out and picks up the bag, hugging it to his chest. He can tell right away that there’s not a sandwich inside. It’s too light for that. But he looks inside and can’t believe his eyes. It’s a roll of bills wrapped up in a rubber band. Money. More money than he’d ever seen in his life.

R: What did he do?

M: He jumped out of his hiding spot and ran for his mom, yelling the whole way. His mom thought something was wrong at first, checking him over for injury, but when he showed her the roll of green money, her eyes opened wide in hope for a split second before they crinkled with a frown. She asked where the boy got it, and he showed her, asking if they could keep it. But the mom said no, it wasn’t theirs, and someone would be very sad that they’d lost their money because it might be their life savings. The boy didn’t understand and argued, ‘finders keepers’, but the mom reminded him of the second part of that cliché, ‘losers weepers’, and said she wouldn’t want to be the reason someone less fortunate was crying. You there?