I used to tell myself I’d do things differently. I wouldn’t follow the same work-first rhythm I grew up with. Then I caught myself looking at my phone while my kids were talking to me. They waited for me to come back to the moment. That pause said more than any Harry Chapin song ever could.

He lived in a small flat above the cliff. A kettle on the stove. A window that watched the edge where rock meets water. When someone stood too near, he crossed the road. He offered tea and time. Simple moves. The kind that steady a shaking day. He’s gone now, though his legacy will last lifetimes.

Es kommt ohne Vorwarnung. Man plant es nicht. Eines Tages ändert sich etwas und die Luft fühlt sich plötzlich schwerer an. Ich war fünf...