Maps

Lukas, you’ve recently become infatuated with maps. You sit on the floor, your maps sprawled out, staring intently as your finger traces across continents, oceans, and rivers. You softly whisper to yourself while your mom and I exchange smiles. You’re only six, and yet, you bury me every time in a game of Find the Country. It’s not even close—and no, I’m not letting you win. Not at all.

Recently, you asked me about the places I’ve been to.

“I haven’t traveled a whole lot,” I said. “Just around Canada.” I pointed to Quebec City, then Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa, and finally Winnipeg.

“You’ve been to Manitoba?” you asked, your eyes lighting up.

I told you, yes, and that’s where I was when you were born.

“You weren’t here when I was born?” you asked, your voice filled with outrage.

I shook my head. “No, I wasn’t.”

Naturally, the follow-up question was, “Why?”

I gave you the short and sweet version: your mom and I were living in a small apartment in downtown Fredericton when she told me she was pregnant. So, I decided to get a job with the railroad because it paid well and would give us a chance to get a house—to start life like a proper family. But that meant training in Winnipeg for the entire summer of 2017, which is when you were born. I came back on August 4th and nervously held you for the first time.

There are parts I left out, for what I think are obvious reasons, but I’ll tell you now because if—or when—you read this, you’ll be older.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I freaked out. As much as I’d love to say I was a man, that I stood up and instantly came up with a solution, I didn’t. I didn’t want to have a kid at that point—I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. I was still infatuated with a self-serving world that featured only one main character: me.

I wanted to be a rock star. You might laugh when you find some of my old songs on Soundcloud and ask, “You seriously thought these would propel you to rock stardom?”

I won’t get offended. I’ll probably laugh too and tell you, “Yes, I did.” Your late teens and early twenties can be a time of massive overconfidence—the end of feeling invincible.

Today, I can’t write a single song I’d feel comfortable sharing with the world. I ask myself all the time, what happened? I used to get up and play in front of drunk frat boys. Now, I can barely sing in front of your mother. Tough but true.

When your mom told me she was pregnant, I remember it clearly—or at least the memories feel clear. Whether they’re 100% factual, I can’t say, but I’ll tell it the way I remember.

I was coming home from work at the lumber yard—or possibly another job—and your mom was sitting in our bedroom on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets. She looked pale and frightened, and I suppose I already knew what she was going to say. When she told me, I flew off the handle. I think I even left. Not my proudest moment, but I eventually came to my senses.

I grabbed a coffee downtown and thought about everything. The small apartment that seemed fine for two poor students—or recent graduates—felt woefully inadequate for a child. Drug addicts lived in the adjacent apartment, and it wasn’t unusual to see syringes littering the steps and parking lot. The thought of rolling you in a stroller through that mess, past the high hellos, made tears well up in my eyes. I felt like I’d failed you before you were even born.

Looking back, I was overthinking. We could have made it work for a little while until we came up with a plan.

Instead, I decided to pursue a career I’d been running for my entire life: the railroad. It ran in the blood of my father, uncle, grandfather, and great-uncle. CN was hiring in my hometown, Campbellton, which seemed unbelievable for a post-industrial town hanging on by the skin of its teeth. But it was true—the men who’d started in the 70s were finally retiring, and a position opened up. I called my father and asked for his help, and he was happy to oblige.

After a few rounds of interviews, I got the job. The training was in Winnipeg for the entire summer.

Your mom and I had many conversations about whether this was the right path. Ultimately, we decided it was. She and her parents would help her move while I was gone. When my training was over, we’d settle in Bathurst. New house, new son, new job. It was a lot, but we made it work... for a little while.

(For the record, we moved to Bathurst because getting hired in Campbellton meant working in Miramichi as well. To avoid hotel rooms, I traveled between the two.)