Archie, someday when you are older and are confronted by a situation neither you nor I anticipated, I hope you remember how nearly every night this summer you’ve insisted on wearing one of Kit’s nightgowns to bed and how your sister has graciously shared her clothing with you and how your father and I smile so wide that our eyes crinkle up at the corners as we watch you twirl, and twirl, and then twirl some more in our bedroom across the floor at the foot of our bed before you run to me, your arms open wide, your fingers splayed open and reaching up, before I bend over to lift you into my arms, meeting you halfway.

I wonder if you’re aware, Archie, that your dad and I always check on you every night before we crawl into our own bed. Sometimes we stand in your doorway together, the both of us moving this way or that so our bodies won’t block the light from the hallway, the one that cuts through the dark stillness enveloping your room and falls upon your bed where you lay soundlessly breathing through an open mouth.

Sometimes, on the nights I go to bed earlier than your father, I check on you alone. Those are the times I straighten you as you slumber, moving your head from the foot of your bed to your pillow and then tucking your blankets in all around you. This summer I’ve straightened your nightgown, too, pulling it down from your armpits and untwisting it from your torso.

It doesn’t matter, though, how we check on you at night, Archie, because the question your dad and I ask each other is always the same whether one of us calls up the steps or whispers across the hallway. “How’s my Archie girl?” we both want to know these days, and what I want you to know when you are older, Archie, is that your dad and I will always allow you to be the person you want to be, the person you are, that we’re letting you show us the way.

Jack, someday when you are older and confronted by a situation neither you nor I anticipated, I hope you remember the time you bit your brother on the back so hard that your teeth cut into his skin because he was playing with a ball you wanted, and how your dad and I punished you by not permitting you to eat sweets for a whole week. You cried and whined every time your sister got a cookie or candy and you didn’t, but your dad and I didn’t waver in our resolve. I even sent a note to school in your lunchbox so your teachers would be informed and have patience with you as you gnashed your teeth and rolled your eyes while your classmates, your sister included, got a treat from the ice cream truck that comes on Wednesday and you didn’t.

It wasn’t easy for me, Jack, to watch your heart break every time you missed out on dessert. I wanted to give you a cookie, too, to pull a popsicle from the fridge for you like I did for your sister, but I hope you know I remained adamant about following through with your punishment for your own good. When you are older I hope you’ll remember what your dad and I are teaching you about actions and consequences. Life is chockfull of gray areas, Jack, but I want you to know that there are unwavering truths that make up the black and white spaces with which we all define our own silhouettes.

Kit, someday when you are older and confronted by a situation neither you nor I anticipated, I hope you remember that one weekend long ago your dad loaded you and your brothers into our station wagon so you could help him run some errands before picking up breakfast at the bagel shop, and that on your way home, in the middle of that road that crosses in front of our neighborhood, you passed me as I was running along the shoulder, underneath the tree branches that hung out over the asphalt.

I hope you’ll remember how your dad slowed down and how he rolled down your window because your car seat was closest to me out there on the road, and I that I waved at you when you passed and then lifted my legs higher so I could run faster and chase our car up the hill, all five of us almost home. Your blonde hair blew in the wind as you strained against the chest straps of your car seat to look as long as you could out the car window at me, to turn your face in my direction until I fell too far behind.

I’ll remember how your eyes flashed and how your smile started at one end of your face and didn’t stop until it reached the other, and how flattered I felt to know you were awestruck watching me, how it felt to feel your pride reach from our backseat to the side of that road. And I’ll remember, too, how later that morning you insisted on wearing your sneakers, the ones that you think look like my running shoes, because you wanted to be like me, you said. I’ll know how that made me feel, and how I think it made you feel.

I’ll remember that morning and those things and I hope you will, too, when you’re older so you’ll know a little bit about what it takes to get a job done and how to do it well. Because if there’s something you’re going to have to know, Kit, it’s going to be how to preserve no matter what. That’s a promise I can make and keep, one I anticipate you’ll know intimately someday out there in this world of unknowable things.