For my wife’s birthday, I gave her Titanic on DVD. Our three-year-old, Max, asked, “Can I watch it after nursery?” I said, “No, buddy—it’s for grown-ups.”
That afternoon, his teacher was laughing: Max had told everyone, “Mommy and Daddy watch Titanic alone at night.”
Years later, Max became obsessed—not with the movie, but the real ship. One night, over nuggets, he whispered, “You and Mommy didn’t see your iceberg.”
He was right.
We slowed down. Reconnected. Watched him grow—curious, wise, kind.
At thirteen, he said, “Thanks for staying, Dad.”
At graduation, he handed us Titanic—the same DVD—with a note: Thank you for steering me through life.
Sometimes, the iceberg isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
