Earlier this week, I took Zeke for his senior yearbook photos. On the drive there, I stared at his hands — rough, calloused, stained with the kind of wear that doesn’t wash off easily. They reminded me of my dad’s hands, the ones that always smelled of sawdust or sweat, and Brandon’s hands in our early years together—working hard, always working. I told myself not to worry, that they’d only be doing headshots. But I was wrong.
Sitting in line at the photo studio, I watched the other students. Kids in letterman jackets, proud with their school rings, poses full of swagger and status. And then there was Zeke, his hands showing where he’s been—outdoors all summer, elbow-deep in the heat, working 30, 40 hours a week. No flashy jacket. No ring. Nothing flashy at all, really. Just those hands, honest and unpolished, telling a story.
My throat tightened. My eyes filled. That familiar voice whispered: Did I do enough? Did I give him all the things other kids have? Did I show him love in the right ways?
I left the studio that day with a weight in my chest. I replayed every moment: the grit on his palms, the way he stood without asking for more, the way he shrugged off what others might envy. Over the next few days, I found myself in tears more than once—apologizing to him, even though I had nothing to be sorry for.
One night I said, “I feel like I’ve failed you.” He looked up, puzzled. Then he said, “Why are you sorry? Because you taught me to work hard? Because I know what earning something means? Because I don’t think I should get everything I want?” His words echoed so loudly in my mind that they shook all the doubts loose.
My sister called me after that. She reminded me of something essential: The best things in life are not things at all. They’re relationships, quiet mornings, the hands that built you, the core values that don’t need flashy symbols. And even though sometimes I trip up as a parent—miss the moment, worry too much, compare too often—those gaps are covered by something far deeper: grace, love that shows up even when I fall short.
I’m proud of Zeke. More than I ever knew I could be. Today he used his own money, his own grit: he took his brother out shopping for a canoe. He drove a vehicle he fixed himself. He filled the gas tank with money he earned. He’s growing up—whether I’m ready or not.
To every parent who has ever felt that comparing your child to someone else’s picture is the measure of their worth: remember, you aren’t measured in what others have. You are measured in the values you instill, in the love you give, in the work ethic he carries, in the heart you raise. And for me—seeing those working hands, seeing his pride without need of adornment—I know I did something right.