It was a Friday. Marty was home because it was parent-teacher conference week. On these weeks, Marty works three, twelve-hour days and, in return, gets a Friday off. The boys were home too because if there are no teachers, there is no school.

I woke at my usual time and started working. After a few hours, I heard Marty's feet pad to the bathroom. I snuck to our bed, so I was there for our morning cuddle when she returned. She nestled into my shoulder and stillness resumed. After a bit, she said she wanted to go out for a pancake breakfast. As we dressed, we heard Anthony stirring and invited him to join us. We knew his response before asking.

We drove to the nearest breakfast house. There were dozens of people standing outside, waiting. How are there so many people here? Doesn't anyone work? It's 9:30 on a Friday, and it looks like the Sunday rush. Amid my out-loud mutterings, Marty bellowed, "It's all digital baby!"

ANTHONY
What?

MARTY
It's all digital. Dad asked what was going on, and I answered.

ANTHONY
But what does that even mean?

MARTY
It means everything's digital, and the world is upside down.

ANTHONY
That doesn't make any sense.

If you just listened to the its-all-digital delivery, you would have thought George Costanza was in our car. In Anthony's defense, he hasn't lived with a teacher for as many years as I have. Teachers are never entirely themselves after parent-teacher conferences. Between the long days, insufficient sleep, and dealing with a maniacally diverse parent pool, this is what it can look like. I told the car this place was out, and we headed to our next option, our city's oldest pancake house, Uncle Bills, a place Marty has been going to since she was younger than Anthony.

We got seated pretty quickly. Anthony soaked up the dark-wood, german-styled ambiance. Marty and I pointed out different things and told him stories about times we came here, mostly in our college days. We got an obscene amount of food and ate off each other's plates. As dishes were cleared, our waitress, Sarah D, a lady in her forties, asked what the occasion was. We said we decided to play hooky today and get some pancakes. She said she remembered times doing that with her son, and it was always a blast. She then added that she lost him earlier in the year. He was twelve.

The four of us were silent. I think one of us said we were sorry. She then said she never regretted a single extra moment she stole to be with her boy and complimented our adventure. She stopped talking. You had the sense if she attempted more, she wouldn't finish the sentence. She put her fingers on the table as if to brace herself and then turned and left. We sat quietly for a moment but then eased our way back to our day.

That moment stuck with me. I often think about the luck of my life, my family's life, and all the fortune and lack of misfortune we have experienced. I look for how I can honor this caliber of wealth. I feel I should be paying some grand and remarkable gesture in recompense. But I've come to feel the opposite. It is not in the big things but the little. Morning cuddles. A hand on a shoulder. An afternoon smile. Saying I love you when you part. Those are the daily drips of awareness that pay these dues.

Then last week, three days before Christmas, there was a knock at our door at 3:13 in the morning. Anthony was the first to hear it and called out that someone was knocking. This woke Marty (but not me). He then added that it was the police. Marty put on a robe and made her way downstairs. She opened the door and found two policemen looking at her. The one in front said, "Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but your garage door is open." Marty doubled over, hands on her knees for support.

Bella was out that night, and Marty thought they were going to say her name, as in "Are you the parent of Isabella DeArmitt?" But they didn't say her name. And that they didn't is why Marty bent in relief. And that they didn't means we get to carry on. Carry on with our unbroken, uncracked, unchipped lives. When Marty told me this story, I thought of Sara D and her fingers on the table. And I felt a renewed level of relief and thankfulness for the wildly fortune-touched life we lead.