Iris cried. It was all so unfair. “I had a kid to find meaning in life, not to have no life at all,” she said shakily. “I work myself to the death for her, and one day I’ll die and it will have meant nothing.”

Lugo furrowed his bushy brows and thought. The fireplace hissed and cracked, the heat already drying her tears.

“When my father died,” he started, “I was 21 years old. One year younger than you, my dear. I was utterly lost. He was my only family. When everyone who has ever known you in your childhood is gone, it is…difficult to know what road to walk, much less walk it. Your compass is broken, you are stranded, and there is no one coming to help you.

I found my wife-to-be years later, and we had our first child. In the delivery room, holding that little bundle…I was absolutely petrified. In that moment I realized that I, too, will leave this perfect creation alone in this world without a compass. It was not until after years of parenting that I slowly, inevitably…remembered.” Lugo looked up at me. “I remembered my father. His smile. His smell. The tower of Legos that we built together. The endless ball games in our backyard. The bedtime stories he told so well. I remembered it all. And I came to terms with the most important truth of my life: that we are the memories that guide our children’s future. That one day, the difference between your daughter giving into despair and picking herself up one more time might very well be you. Long after you’re dead, she will hear your whispers in her dreams, and your words in her heart. And she’ll live.”