I came home early from the job site today. The sun was out, rare for June in New Brunswick lately, and I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d get a second to breathe. Clear my head.

But the second I step inside, I hear a knock on the door.
Not a big knock. Not urgent. Just a light, confident tap.

It’s Evan.

He says, “I’m going out to start my business now.”

No hesitation. Just like that.

He’s been on this kick lately—wants to build a dream PC. He’s got all the parts picked out. Top of the line. RGB-everything. As if money grows on maple trees. But he’s been smart, too. Saved up holiday and birthday money and already bought himself a slick case. He’s serious.

I figured this “business” idea was just a phase. He’d knock on a few doors, get no bites, and that’d be it.

But five minutes later, he’s back.

“I got a customer.”

He’s beaming. No fear. No doubt. Just pure, honest pride.

So of course, Dad loads up the mower, the whippersnipper, the leaf blower—everything. We head out to this house. Evan gets to work. Mows 90% of the lawn himself. I handle the trimming and a bit of the cleanup, but the work? That was his.

And he didn’t just show up—he showed up hard. Focused. Determined.

I stood there watching him, and something hit me in the chest. This wasn’t just about a lawn or a computer. It was about ownership. About earning something. About stepping forward.

And I realized… I was watching my son begin to become a man.

There’s this thing I’ve carried most of my life, and I’ve only recently started unpacking it.

My father rarely called me “son.”
It’s such a small word, but it matters.

We want to hear it. We want to feel it. We want to know that we’re being seen for who we are—not just as kids, but as someone our fathers are proud of.

Funny thing is, it wasn’t my dad, but my grandfather—when he was still strong and healthy—who called me “son” without fail. Every time. Like it was second nature to him.

And I don’t know why, but I needed that validation. Maybe still do, some days.

That’s why I call Evan “son” every chance I get.

Not just out of habit. Out of intention.
I want him to know he’s already enough.
He doesn’t have to earn the word.
He doesn’t have to chase my approval.

Because once you grow up without that sense of being fully seen—of being named by your father—it can leave a hole you spend your whole life trying to patch.

I don’t want him carrying that weight. He’ll have his own to carry, sure. But not this.

Tonight’s run was about that.
7.78 km at a 6:17/km pace. Paced for reflection, not performance.

I ran with a full heart. Ran for the moment where I watched my son push that mower with purpose. For the look in his eyes when he knew he was doing something that mattered. For the echo of my grandfather’s voice in my own, as I called him “son” and meant it more than he’ll ever know.

A quick word for anyone out there, especially the dads, the sons, the in-betweeners:

Validation isn’t weakness.
Love spoken out loud is strength.
Call your kid “son” or “daughter” or “champ” or “beautiful” or whatever word makes them feel seen.

You might think they don’t need it. You might think they know. But hearing it? Feeling it in real time?

It changes something.

Anyway. That was my day.
A cut lawn, a proud kid, a father doing his best not to repeat old ghosts.
And a run under a soft blue sky, full of gratitude.

T