Every morning started with cartoons, spilled cereal, and one missing shoe. Every night ended with bedtime stories and negotiations over why five more minutes absolutely mattered.
When he was little, he rode everywhere on my hip or shoulders. As he got older, he learned without being told that our family worked differently than most.
If something sat too high, he handed it down.
If stairs tired me out, he slowed his pace.
If strangers stared, he stared right back until they looked away first.
Kids can become cruel when they notice difference, but Marcus never seemed ashamed of me. Proud, if anything.
In middle school, another boy once asked him during basketball practice, “Isn’t it weird having a dwarf dad?”
Marcus answered, “No. Weird is asking questions nobody invited you to ask.”
The coach laughed so hard he nearly dropped the whistle.
By high school, Marcus had become everything energetic and unstoppable. Sports, running, lifting weights, hiking—if it involved movement, he loved it.
