Archive of Our Own

The distinctive timestamp of a camcorder blinks in the bottom right corner of the screen. The camera shakes, capturing the glaring, piercing Los Angeles sunlight.

Six-year-old Ryland, wearing a faded T-shirt with an astronaut printed on it, is crouching on the grass. He is intently trying to assemble a "water rocket" using duct tape and a plastic bottle.

His father’s voice comes from off-camera: "Hey, Ryland, look at the camera. Tell Mommy, what do you want to be up when you grow up?"

Little Ryland doesn't look up. He tears off another strip of duct tape, trying to seal a leak around the bottle neck. He mutters, "Just want this rocket to fly over the neighbor's fence."

The camera pans to Mr. Grace, who has a few pieces of old PVC pipes tucked under his arm, getting ready to build a launch pad for the rocket.

The lens tilts downward, capturing the lush green grass on the ground, while his mother’s laughter echoes from somewhere in the distance.

After a brief flash of blue screen and static buzz, the timestamp jumps back into view.

There is a sharp "click" of the record button being pressed.

"Look here, look at the camera."

But the screen is pitch black. After a moment of lens flare, an eye of striking blue appears way too close to the lens.

"Honey, you forgot to take the lens cap off," followed by a burst of laughter.

The camera finally turns to Ryland Grace sitting on the carpet. He holds a crinkled, clumsily wrapped Christmas gift box in his arms, his face a picture of pure astonishment.

"RyRy, be careful not to cut your hands," his mother reminds him, kneeling by his side.

The tearing sound of wrapping paper blends with a sharp gasp—

"Nintendo!!"

The six-year-old boy screams at the top of his lungs, then throws himself into his mother’s arms, burying his fluffy head in her chest and rubbing against her.

July 12, 1994 (Age 4)
Weather: Typically scorching Los Angeles heat

Today, Ryland used every single encyclopedia in the living room to build a massive tower. When Mary tried to pick him up for his bath, he threw a major tantrum. It wasn't until I looked closer that I realized he wasn't just throwing a fit—he was arranging them perfectly by the colors of the spines. Red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, purple.

Good God, he’s only four. Mary is utterly convinced our son is a genius. I’m already starting to worry about how on earth we’re going to afford tuition for Stanford or Caltech. He really doesn't talk much, though. We took him to Santa Monica Beach, and instead of building sandcastles with the other kids, he just sat under the umbrella by himself, counting individual grains of sand with his finger. He always seems to live entirely in his own little world.

November 3, 1998 (Age 8)
Weather: Foggy

A day for the history books. Using a discarded radio coil, a few copper wires, and an empty Coke can, he managed to build a functional radio receiver completely on his own. It actually picked up local AM signals. When the speaker crackled to life with the weather report from KNX 1070 Newsradio, that familiar spark flared up in his eyes.

It’s a pure, unadulterated obsession with truth. Mary rewarded him with an extra box of strawberry Pop-Tarts tonight. I told Mary that this kid is going to be a phenomenal scientist one day. His name is going to be printed in textbooks.

May 14, 2002 (Age 12)
Weather: Clear
Walter Reed Middle School Open House

Went to Ryland’s parent-teacher conference today, and things are a bit concerning. His science grades are a flawless A+, but his homeroom teacher called us in for a chat. She said he’s practically invisible at school. During a group lab, another kid accidentally knocked over his copper sulfate solution, and Ryland didn’t speak a single word to anyone for a whole week.

Tonight during our family dinner at In-N-Out, I tried to give him some gentle advice: "Son, you have to learn to cooperate with people."

He chewed on his fries—

"But a crowd doesn't make a wrong answer right." He dipped a fry into the ketchup, paused, and added: "Molecules don't vote."

I looked at his little face, still holding onto its baby fat but already incredibly stubborn, and just sighed. He isolates himself too much. Science has become his armor, but it’s also becoming his wall. Mary and I can only do our best to keep this home as warm as possible for him.

I can only pray that when he goes off to college and steps into a bigger world, he’ll find a true friend—someone who really understands him, someone who can make him drop his guard and want to fight side by side.

September 1, 2008 (Age 18)
Weather: Cool

Tomorrow, Ryland moves into his college dorm. He got a full scholarship and chose his absolute favorite: molecular biology.

Watching him pack his washed-out N64 console, stacks of heavy manuscript drafts, and that Nintendo Power Glove we got him when he was eight into the trunk, it hit me all at once. The little boy who used to build water rockets on the grass is truly heading out into the world.

Mary was secretly crying in the kitchen. Ryland walked over and gave us a somewhat clumsy hug—he’s still not big on physical contact, but he held on remarkably tight.

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Dear Ryland,

By the time you read this, you’ll probably be sitting on that uncomfortable mattress in your freshman dorm. Please forgive your mother for rambling today. When I was helping you pack the trunk and saw you stuff that old eight-year-old Nintendo Power Glove into your box, it suddenly hit me: my little boy who used to build water rockets on the lawn has truly grown up. You are stepping into a life that belongs entirely to you now.

You got a full scholarship, and you chose your absolute favorite field, molecular biology. Your father and I could not be prouder. You’ve always been a different kind of child. You never liked noisy places, and you never liked it when people suddenly dropped their expectations into your hands. Whenever you’re faced with a massive choice, your instinct is always to take a step back and pretend you just need to do a little more research. Your father always says you’re a genius, but Mommy knows the truth: you’re just a sensitive, delicate boy who gets scared easily sometimes. Sometimes I think you prefer cells and molecules because they’re more honest than people. They don't suddenly change their minds, and they don't tell half-truths.

College is a completely fresh start. I don’t care if you become some grand, famous scientist, and I don’t care if your name ever makes it into a textbook. I just want you to remember to drink a glass of milk every morning, and stop surviving on those awful, nutritionless Dunkaroos. And please get your eyes checked if your glasses prescription changes.

The road ahead is long. You might stumble upon some unbelievable scientific discoveries, or you might face unprecedented setbacks and failures. But Ryland, please always remember this:

No matter how far away life takes you—even if you move to the other side of the universe, even if you’re too busy to return our calls—whenever you want to come home, the spare key is exactly where it’s always been, under the blue flowerpot by the door. We will always be right here.

Happy move-in day, my brilliant boy.

Love always,

Mom

AUG. 31, 2008

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