Here it was. The day that had been set aside to send you off to university. The lad becomes a man. Or, rather, the lad becomes a celebrated debtor. Our only child you were, and now, this day of joy that had been waiting in the future had found us in the present.

Ever since the day you first arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, I had been looking forward to the day on which you would pack up, leave, and let me get back to my PlayStation. So many great games had been forgone waiting for you to grow up. I hate to think of it too much, for it alarms me. And, worse, who notices that which we sacrifice in the name of our children? No one.

But here we are, our little Bert Reynolds – the golden child – going off to get a degree and make a name for himself in Turf Grass Management. We thought you should have taken physics or mathematics, but it’s a universal truth that you can’t tell your children what to do. Such is life.

There you go, son. Get in the boat. That’s right, row away. No, don’t look back, and don’t feel compelled to come back. Row on.

“Ta-ra, son,” I shout across the lake. I’m beaming. Your mother looks sideways at me. Behind the tears, she seems disturbed.

“Why are you so happy?” She demands. She never was able to hide her contempt for me very competently. Not since I dropped an oven dish on her toe at least.

“Why am I so happy? Is it not obvious? I have my life back. Finally, I can complete Red Dead Redemption,” I retort.

She shakes her head.

“What?” I ask.

“Bert has taken the PlayStation with him.” She lets out a laugh that chills my brow, ears, and left foot.

Aghast, I scramble desperately into the lake, collide awkwardly with the water, and swim after the boat. But it’s too late. The PlayStation. My PlayStation. The life I could have had. It’s too far away.