Parents chuckled, teachers exchanged amused glances, and I felt a flush of embarrassment—but there was something in Max’s tone that lingered with me. It wasn’t just the humor; it was the curiosity, the spark of wonder about something much bigger than himself.
“Can I watch it after nursery?” I explained it was “for grown-ups only.”
That day at school, he proudly announced to teachers and parents that
“Mommy and Daddy watch Titanic alone at night.” Everyone laughed, but something lingered.
Max became fascinated—not with the film, but the ship. He built ocean liners from Duplo,
floated conditioner-cap lifeboats at bathtime, and asked endless questions: Why didn’t the captain see the iceberg?
When I explained, “Sometimes people go too fast and miss what’s ahead,” Max whispered,
“That’s what happened to you and Mommy.” He was right—we’d rushed into marriage after his surprise arrival and drifted into parallel lives.
His words pushed us to slow down, reconnect, and make small but real changes.
Years later, at nine, Max stood in silence before the Titanic exhibit in Halifax.
“Here. This is where it happened,” he said, as if he simply knew. Later, he finally watched the movie, writing afterward:
Even the largest ships need to be humble. Or else they will sink.
Max grew into a thoughtful young man—kind, steady, wise beyond his years.
At his graduation, he handed us that same DVD with a note:
Thank you for steering me through life—even when we couldn’t see the icebergs.
Because sometimes the iceberg isn’t the end—it’s the reminder to steer with your heart.
