David Sheff

It hurts so bad that I cannot save him, protect him,
keep him out of harm's way, shield him from pain.
What good are fathers if not for these things?

In the end, my efforts could not rescue Nic. Nor could writing heal me, though it helped.

This is the way that misery does love company: People are relieved to learn that they are not alone in their suffering, that they are part of something larger,

I also know that parents have discretionary recall, blocking out everything that contradicts our carefully edited recollections—an understandable attempt to dodge blame. Conversely, children often fixate on the indelibly painful memories, because they have made stronger impressions.

I have a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function.

—KURT COBAIN, in his suicide note

Nic is born at dawn—our beautiful boy.

We are among the first generation of self-conscious parents. Before us, people had kids. We parent.

When the other children tease him—"Only girls wear tights"—Nic responds, "Uh-uh. Superman wears tights."

I am proud of his confidence and individuality.

"I don't think you should always try your best all the time," he writes, "because, let's say a drug atick asks you for drugs you should not try your best to find him some drugs."

It's one thing to be safe, but panic is useless and too much caution can be stifling.