On my wife’s birthday, I wrapped a DVD of Titanic as a gift. Our three-year-old, Max, immediately asked, “Can I watch it after nursery?” I smiled and explained, “This one’s for grown-ups only.”
That afternoon at school, Max proudly announced to teachers and parents, “Mommy and Daddy watch Titanic alone at night.” Everyone laughed—but Max wasn’t done.
He became obsessed—not with the movie itself, but with the ship. He built ocean liners from Duplo blocks, floated conditioner-cap lifeboats in the bathtub, and asked endless questions: “Why didn’t the captain see the iceberg? Why didn’t they slow down?”
I tried to explain gently, “Sometimes people go too fast and miss what’s ahead.” Max looked at me seriously, eyes wide, and whispered, “That’s what happened to you and Mommy.” His words cut straight to the heart—we’d rushed into marriage after his surprise arrival, and over time, we’d drifted into parallel lives. His innocent observation pushed us to slow down, reconnect, and make small but real changes in our relationship.
As the years passed, Max’s fascination with the Titanic continued. At nine, he stood in silent awe before the Titanic exhibit in Halifax. “Here. This is where it happened,” he said, as if he could feel the story himself. Later, he finally watched the movie and wrote in his little journal: Even the largest ships need to be humble. Or else they will sink.
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