As we arrive at the base of Walker Mountain, where the main two-lane road meets the skinny one that snakes up to the family’s several homes and yet-to-be-developed plots of land, Graham asks the driver to stop. He pulls to the side and before he’s even pushed the gear to park, Graham has the door open and a foot out on the muddy ground.

“Sorry, just one minute,” I explain to the driver who nods and shrugs, nary a concern on his face. He’s getting paid whether we’re moving or stopped. What does he care about Graham’s weird tradition?

Above the road hangs an arched wooden sign, cracking and stained from years of snow and rain. It’s barely visible now, but branded in a plain serif font is Walker Mountain, the two words separated in the center by the family’s crest involving a coyote and a maple tree. It’s one thing to be a part of a family with its own crest, but it’s another to have the crest on a sign, and printed on lowball glasses, and embroidered on the chest of Oskar’s uniform. I hate this fucking family.

On the forest green poles flanking the road, supporting the sign above us, Graham finds a spot and begins to write his initials and the date with a black marker he keeps in his carry-on for this reason and this reason alone. He and his brother each have a pole and, ever since they moved out, they record every day they return to the mountain. Graham said it was born out of a competition to see who visited their parents more when they were both at Yale. Reed stopped adding to his years ago, but Graham continues, again unable to break a tradition.

When he got back in the car, the bitterly cold air sneaks in with him and sends shivers up and down my arms. He reaches his phone screen out toward me and smiles. On it is a picture of his initials and the date, and next to it a poorly scribbled heart that looks more like a drunken tattoo someone would pay good money to remove from their ankle. “The next time we’re up here, you get to put your name on it, too.” He’s beaming at the thought, expecting from me the kind of excitement I’d feel if he were gifting me a house.

Once in our early days of dating, we were lying in bed, talking about our families for the first time. I told him about how tragically my parents passed away, offering the occasional look away and rub of the eyes to really sell the vulnerability. He nuzzled his face into my neck and whispered, “I’m sad you don’t have traditions of your own. But one day, you’ll have mine.”