The house felt quiet and still, with a strange tension hanging in the air. My mom sat at the kitchen table, staring at a blank sheet of paper. She was deep in thought, tapping her pen as if searching for the right words. I asked her what she was doing, and she told me she was thinking about the baby—my son—who was due any day now.
Then she suddenly grabbed a pen and scribbled a few words before folding the note and sealing it. She handed me the small envelope and told me to open it after my son was born. I thought it was some kind of game or a special message I would understand later.
When my wife finally gave birth to our healthy baby boy, I found the note in my pocket. Inside, simple words described exactly his weight and length—details I hadn’t shared with anyone. My mother explained that this was a family tradition, tracing back to my great-grandfather, whose measurements matched mine and now my son’s.
But the surprises didn’t stop there. My mother urged me to name my son after her grandfather, saying it was important to honor the family legacy. Though my wife and I had already chosen a name, we agreed on a compromise and added the name as a middle name. The baby’s arrival brought more than joy; it revived old traditions and connected our family in unexpected ways.
