Page 143 of Anything But Lonely

Because for him, this is the beginning of something new.

For me, it’s a reminder that every year from here on out, he’s going to need me a little less.

And I know that’s the goal. I know I’m supposed to raise him to be confident enough to walk through those doors without me. I know I’m supposed to be proud that he’s excited, that he’s curious, that he’s ready.

But there’s still a part of me that wants to keep holding his hand for just a little longer.

Not because I don’t think he can do it.

Because I know he can.

“Daddy,” he says again, laughing as he tries one more time to escape my grip. “I need to go line up.”

“Come on, Matty. You heard him,” Talia says, lightly bumping her shoulder with mine before she leans her head on Daniel’s shoulder.

I finally loosen my fingers.

Not because I’m ready.

But because he is.

Talia and Daniel kneel, opening their arms to Crew, wishing him good luck.

We’re surrounded by dozens of families doing the same as the Kindergarten teachers hold up signs with their names to make sure all the kids get to the right place.

How the hell do I have a Kindergartener?

I barely made it through Crew’s birthday last weekend. He’s an August baby, just barely five, and I think I cried five different times.

Emerson had tissues in her pocket, ready to pull out throughout the day—when he opened his first present, when he blew out his candles, when he posed for a picture next to the superhero banner Emerson made for him.

It was all the little moments that got me. The way he ran into the room in the morning already excited, the way he studied every gift before tearing into it, the way he proudly showed everyone each new toy like it was the greatest thing he had ever seen. He wore his superhero shirt, ran around with his friends, laughed until he was out of breath, and spent the entire day soaking up every bit of attention that came his way.

There were pictures in front of the decorations, cake smeared across his face, my entire house full of kids running around, and a five-year-old who was absolutely convinced it was the best day ever.

And somehow, somewhere between the candles, the pictures, and watching him celebrate with everyone who loves him, I found myself reaching for a tissue again—or maybe I was just reaching for Emerson.

“I hope you have the best first day of school,” Talia says as Crew stands in front of her, bouncing up and down on his toes, ready to bolt into the school at any moment, his pink cast covered in signatures from the last few weeks.

“I will, Mommy,” he says, and she leans in to kiss him on the cheek as Daniel ruffles his hair.

I feel Emerson’s hand on my arm, her body pressing against me. “I never took you for a helicopter parent, rockstar,” she teases, whispering in my ear.

“You’re telling me,” I say on a sigh.

Ever since the day we visited her mom, it’s safe to say that Emerson has been fighting an uphill battle. And I’ve been there for her every step of the way.

The last month has been a mix of good days and hard ones. Some mornings she wakes up and seems like herself—laughing, making plans, getting excited about the little things.

Other days, it feels like the smallest reminder can knock the wind out of her. A song, a memory, a conversation, or even a quiet moment when she has too much space to think can bring everything rushing back.

There have been days when she’s exhausted, not from anything specific, but I think just from carrying the emotions she can’t always put into words. And there are days where she’s frustrated that grief doesn’t follow any kind of timeline. But she’s back in therapy consistently now, and it has made a noticeable difference. Having a place to process everything, unpack the harder moments, and learn how to ride the waves instead of fighting against them has helped her keep her head above water.

I didn’t know she had started therapy when we were on a break from tour back in the winter, and I definitely didn’t know she was missing sessions once we started back up again.

I try to remind myself that I couldn’t have made her go. I couldn’t force her to ask for help or decide she was ready before she was. That choice had to come from her. But I still can’t help feeling a little guilty—wondering if I should have noticed, if there were signs I missed, or if there was something I could have done differently.

But all that matters now is that she’s putting the work in, and I’m here for her.