A found photograph from a thrift store. A handwritten tracklist. Twenty-one songs that someone chose for me in 2005. When I slid the disc into our old Kia Soul, my kids didn't just hear music—they discovered evidence that I had a life before them. And then something unexpected happened: they asked to hear it again.

Midwest emo was never supposed to survive adulthood. Yet here we are, the same kids who found American Football in college town record stores, now listening again in the driveway while our kids unload backpacks. This is music that grows up with you.