I’m Kenji, 35. Today, my wife Suzu (also 35) and I were supposed to celebrate our daughter Aira’s 11th birthday at a restaurant at 6 p.m. In the morning, I had a basketball game with my local rec team, and afterward, we planned to grab a drink at the post-game party before heading to the restaurant. But despite all that practice, our team got crushed. Frustrated, I ended up drinking way too much at the after-party… and when I finally came to, I was in some place I didn’t recognize. Where am I? What time is it?
Ever since that day, Aira’s been traumatized by the idea of meeting me outside anywhere. It was supposed to be her special day, and I feel awful knowing that every birthday from now on might remind her of that fear. Suzu was worried sick too—when I got home, she was crying and furious, and she put GPS tracking on my phone.
I was acting like I was still in my youth, caught up in the fun of sports, but my body—and my responsibilities—don’t match that anymore. I’m not a carefree college kid; I’m a husband and a father. I swore that night to never lose sight of that again.