THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open when you turn 18

I'm writing this the winter you were eleven, the year you refused to wear a coat on principle. You stood at the bus stop in a T-shirt in January and told me, with your teeth chattering, that you were not cold. I loved you so much I could barely stand it.

And now you're eighteen. Officially in charge of yourself. I've been dreading this letter and looking forward to it at the same time.

Here is what I know, in no particular order.

You're allowed to make your own mistakes now. Please make interesting ones.

Ask for help sooner than you think you should. It's not weakness. It's efficiency.

The people who are kind to waiters are the only ones worth keeping.

Call your grandmother on Sundays. You'll understand why later.

You will not have it figured out at eighteen, or twenty five, or forty. Nobody does. The adults you think have it together are mostly just good at hiding the panic.

And the most important one: whatever you choose, wherever you go, I'm on your side. Not on the side of your choices, always. On your side. That's different, and it doesn't expire.

Happy birthday. Wear a coat.

Dad

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