The Robe

This is me. I’m about two years old.

Wrapped in my Ma’s robe—folded into something that felt bigger than I was.

She was probably at work when this photo was taken.

I used to wrap that robe around me like armor.

It smelled like her—Jean Naté and the cigarettes she smoked on hard days.

I can still see the boxes lined up on her dresser—soft yellow with bold black writing, a scent that lingered in the house long after she walked out the door.

I didn’t have much then. But when I wore that robe, I had her.

Even if only for a moment.

Maybe she took the picture when she got home. Maybe she walked in, saw me curled up—calm, quiet, safe—and wanted to hold on to that sliver of peace.

Now that I’m older, I know why she worked so hard.

Why she smelled like worry.

Why she needed to give me everything she could—even if it was just a robe.

Today, as a father, I’ve taken that same photo—a hundred times.

My own kids asleep on the couch, snuggled in, breathing slow.

And every time I see it, I feel something old stir in me.

Because I remember. I remember being held—even if only by fabric, fragrance, and intention.

We talk a lot about what makes a man.

I only hope it begins with moments like this.

Not in the big lessons, but in the soft ones.

The people who wrapped themselves around you—even when they had nothing left.

The feeling of being wanted, protected, and known.

So let me ask you:

What’s your robe?

What’s the thing that reminded you you were loved?

P.S. I lost my Ma on January 17, 2020. I’d give anything to wrap that robe around me one last time.