First thing in the morning. Spreading through the opaque glass windows, the morning sun landed on the book's yellowing pages. I acquired it years ago, proving that even if it takes years, book backlogs are justified. Enthralling, entertaining first chapters. My son and daughter in bed with me, two drowsy sleepyheads already tinkering their devices. My wife is already in the other room, working from home.
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I wrote this a decade earlier, and today, I. who turned 10 recently, reads the words that I dedicated to him and his party guests.
A few days ago, I made a fart joke, to which he responded, "That's gross. How are we even related?"
It's been days, and we're still laughing.
It's been a decade. Happy Birthday, I.