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He’s so mad today that he won’t let Mom call him Teddy. No, of course not. Today he’s simply Theodore, and heaven help anyone who dares to contradict him. Teddy is the kid who gets to enjoy a Saturday with his mom and the brand-new racing sled he got for his birthday but hasn’t been able to try out yet. Theodore is the poor soul who has to spend the whole damn day sitting in a corner of the diner because the waiter who was supposed to cover the shift got sick, and he can’t stay with Grandma Flo and Grandpa Marlon, who at least let him build snowmen in the yard, because they decided that this very weekend was the perfect time to go to that stupid cabin they own in the middle of nowhere. And Mom won’t leave him home alone all day, even though he finally turned ten, which means he’s officially joined the club of people with two digits in their age and should therefore start sharing in their privileges.
Deep down, he knows he’s not being entirely fair to Mom. It’s not like she wanted to work this particular Saturday, the one they had planned so many fun things for. Still, he can’t help pouting every time he remembers he’s not sliding down a hill on his new sled.
“How many more pancakes will it take for you to forgive me?” she asks as she places his second plate of the morning in front of him.
It’s infuriating that the diner’s pancakes, made with Grandma Flo’s recipe, are the best he’s ever tasted. Even when Mom makes them at home, they never taste quite as good.
He decides not to answer. Instead, he pulls the plate closer and stabs a pancake with unnecessary force. He refuses to use the knife. That’s his little act of revenge. He nibbles at the edges defiantly without looking directly at her, though part of him almost hopes she’ll scold him. Mom only messes up his hair and walks back behind the counter.
There aren’t many customers, so he can easily hear the TV mounted high on the wall. Mom doesn’t let him switch to the cartoon channel because it’s “too noisy and bothers people,” but she does let him watch the documentaries on the History Channel, which he probably likes even more than Ben 10. Sometimes kids at school call him a nerd when he blurts out some random fact he’s learned, but he doesn’t care. Mom says he’s a smart boy.
After the pancakes, Mom brings him a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Not the usual milk-with-powder kind, but the thick homemade version that, apparently, Dad used to make all the time when they still lived in Detroit.
Not that he remembers. Nobody remembers anything from when they were two.
The cup of hot chocolate comes topped with a generous layer of whipped cream and marshmallows. Under any other circumstances, Mom would never let him have that much sugar all at once, but this is a special occasion and he intends to take full advantage of it.
When he finishes, he makes an effort to look as melancholy as possible and rests his head against the window, pretending to stare absently at the parking lot. The snow that fell overnight is still clean, untouched by cars, and it looks like a soft white blanket. He knows by heart the best spots for sledding, the ones Mom won’t let him go to on his own.
Customers come and go slowly that Saturday morning. Some are tourists, and their fancy, over-the-top winter clothes give them away, but most are locals from Jackson whom he recognizes at least by sight. Many wave to him when they see him sitting there with his comics and notebooks spread out on the table.
He tries to act a little rude, just because he’s still angry, but Mom gives him a warning look from behind the counter that quickly makes him drop the act.
It’s going to be a long, tedious day.
***
Around one o’clock, a man walks into the diner, someone he’s never seen before. He doesn’t look like a tourist, because that puffy jacket he’s wearing definitely came from the Walmart clearance rack, and his scarf is an ugly shade of brown that doesn’t match his gloves or his boots. He’s not from Jackson either, because anyone local would know how to dress properly for the cold.
He watches the man with mild curiosity as he crosses the room and leans on the counter, arms stretched out. He’s a big guy. Not big as in fat, and not exactly tall either. Well, yes, he’s tall, but not that tall. He’s just big. Broad shoulders. Large hands. A thick neck. He has a short, uneven beard, a hooked nose, and dark eyes. He looks a little like a sheriff from the Old West.
“Hey, Tess, didn’t expect to see you here today,” the man says with genuine surprise when he spots his mother coming out of the kitchen.
She looks surprised to see him too. Very surprised. Her eyes go first to him, then to the man, and when she speaks, she sounds calm, but he knows her well enough to tell that something has just slipped out of her control.
“I had to cover Greg’s shift at the last minute.”
“Damn, that sucks. You had plans with your boy, right?”
That’s freaking weird. How does some random customer know what he and Mom were supposed to do today? He figures that since the guy mentioned him, that gives him enough reason to leave his table and approach the counter. He wants to know who this mysterious man is.
Mom’s eyes go wide as he reaches the man’s side, but her face stays neutral when she says, “Do you need something, honey?”
“Water, please,” he improvises, trying to look as innocent as possible.
The man gives him a puzzled look. “Hey, kid,” he says by way of greeting, and from the way he says it, it’s clear he doesn’t talk to ten-year-olds very often.
Mom fills a glass with ice water and sets it in front of him. She sighs. “This is my son, Ted—Theodore.”
One thing about his mom is that she respects his anger. That’s what makes it hard for him to stay mad for long.
“Nice to meet you, Theodore. My name’s Joel.”
He says it in a formal but not awkward way, though his accent is thick and unusual. He really does sound like a sheriff from the Old West.
“What can I get you, Joel?”
“Pancakes,” the man says. “Promised breakfast for dinner. I guess if we heat them in the oven, they’ll be fine for tonight.”
Mom pours him a cup of coffee before getting started on the order. She gives her son a look that means back to your seat, so he retreats to the corner table but keeps his eyes on the counter. Joel rests his elbow on the surface, his head in his hand, scrolling idly on his phone, yet the boy notices how he occasionally glances toward the kitchen door.
When Mom comes out with the order in a disposable tray and slips it into a paper bag to hand it over, Joel doesn’t leave right away. They talk quietly for a while, their voices too low to make out. What he does notice is that Mom looks over at him once or twice, and so does the man.
He dares to hold the man’s gaze at one point, and instead of looking away like most grown-ups do when caught staring, the man gives him a small wave goodbye. Without thinking, he finds himself returning the gesture, as if they already knew each other somehow.
***
“Who was your friend?”
It’s night by the time they leave the diner. It’s not even late, but the sky is already dark. Mom won’t let him try out the sled after sunset. That makes him even angrier. The weather forecast says it’ll be bad tomorrow, and then it’s Monday again, which means school, and after that, staying with Grandma Flo until Mom gets off work, when it’s dark all over again. He’ll have to wait at least a week before he can finally use the stupid sled.
“What friend?”
The car’s heater has turned their cheeks pink. They’re stopped at a red light, and the glow gives Mom’s face a strange, almost Martian look.
“The guy with the weird accent. The one who came in for pancakes.”
“Oh, Joel. He comes in for breakfast a lot.”
“I hadn’t seen him before.”
“They moved to Jackson not long ago.”
He lets out a huff. “Yeah, figures he’s not from around here.”
The corner of Mom’s mouth curls slightly. The light turns green, and the car rolls forward. She no longer looks like she’s from another planet.
“Texas,” she says. “That’s why he talks like that.”
“Like a sheriff.”
“Like a sheriff? Is that what it sounds like to you?” Mom laughs.
They don’t take the usual turn toward home. Instead, Mom veers off in another direction, and it takes him a second to realize where they’re heading. When he does, he can’t help smiling a little. They’re going to his favorite restaurant. They serve the best ribs he’s ever had, but it’s an expensive place, and they only go on special occasions—like his birthday a few days ago.
Going twice in the same week is something they’ve never done before.
He pretends to pull out two pistols and aims them forward. Grandpa Marlon sometimes puts on those old cowboy-and-Indian movies, the kind everyone says are just silly caricatures of the real thing and meant to be laughed at. He doesn’t tell Grandpa that, deep down, he actually likes them a little.
“’Bout time this town had a new sheriff,” he says in his best imitation, which isn’t very good, because Mom bursts out laughing.
“We’ll go try your sled tomorrow, sweetheart,” she says, changing the subject.
“It’s going to be bad weather tomorrow. There’ll be a storm,” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice softens as he adds, “Today was the perfect day for it.”
Mom’s shoulders slump. “I’m really sorry,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “Next Saturday, I promise.”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll see,” he sighs.
Mom frowns, and he feels a small twist in his stomach. He doesn’t want to stay mad anymore; it’s exhausting. What really makes him sad is how bad she feels when she can’t keep her promises, because it’s never really her fault. Mom always tries.
“Maybe there were too many people today anyway,” he offers. “Next Saturday’ll be better.”
Mom reaches out and strokes his cheek.
“You’re just like your dad,” she says, her voice so gentle it makes him grin from ear to ear.
He likes being like his dad.
***
The waiter recognizes them right away because he’s the same one who served them on his birthday. He greets them with a smile and leads them to a small table by the window. The place is packed, mostly with tourists. Families with kids, the kind who come down from the resorts to have dinner in town.
They order his favorite ribs with a side of fries that are just right: crispy on the outside and soft inside. Mom steals a few because she ordered coleslaw with her steak, something he’s never understood.
“So, where your friend lived in Texas, it didn’t snow?” he asks once dessert arrives.
They’re sharing a slice of chocolate cake with strawberry jam.
“I don’t know, I guess not. Doesn’t seem like they get much snow down there. Why all this sudden interest in Joel?”
He shrugs. He doesn’t really know how to explain it, only that the man seemed… interesting. So big.
“How about we head home and watch a movie?” Mom always wins when she wants to change the subject.
He lets it slide. “Yeah, a scary one.”
“But you have to sleep in your own room tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Mom, I sleep with you because you’re the one who gets scared.”
Mom laughs, squinting and tilting her head to the side. “Is that how you convince yourself?”
They pay and run to the car because they left their coats inside. He rubs his hands together while Mom turns on the heater, pretending he’s a dragon breathing out steam.
At home, while he takes a shower (why the heck does he have to shower again when he already did last night and barely moved all day?), Mom makes popcorn and fills a bowl with M&Ms. She piles the bed with pillows and turns on the TV in her bedroom instead of the one in the living room.
“See? You’re the one who wants me to sleep with you,” he teases, slipping under the comforter and grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“Guilty,” she says with a grin. “What can I say? I like having my boy with me.”
Sometimes Mom talks to him as if he were still little. He lets her, as long as no one’s around — and she knows she’s absolutely forbidden to do it anywhere within a one-mile radius of his school.
He convinces her to watch a movie about a demon that looks like a nun. She refuses at first, but he promises he won’t get scared because he’s old enough now to know it’s all fake. The truth, though, is that by the twenty-minute mark he’s holding a pillow over his face, and Mom’s laughing at him, saying it’s not too late to switch to something else.
“No, no, I can handle it.”
***
Joel shows up again, unexpectedly, just three days later, on the night the boiler decides to give out and he can’t take his evening shower. Not that he really minds; Mom could probably save herself the trouble of fixing it if that were the only problem. The real issue is the freezing cold. The radiators aren’t working either, and when he steps out of the bathroom he’s dripping wet, leaving a trail of water behind him. His pajamas stick to his skin, and his footprints mark the floor.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, even though the clanking and pounding noises coming from the pipes make it pretty clear something’s gone wrong with the boiler.
He knows about these things because Mom always explains what she’s doing when she has to fix something. The boiler is one of the apartment’s biggest problems. Mom says it’s because it wasn’t built to run constantly all winter, only for short periods. Most of the apartments in their complex are rented out to tourists who come to enjoy the snow without paying resort prices. Mom and he are among the few who live there year-round.
He finds her kneeling in front of the boiler cabinet, the white panel propped against the wall. Steam fogs the window, and she’s sweating even though the place feels icy. Beside her sits her toolbox, which has always fascinated him because it’s full of interesting things she rarely lets him touch.
“The heat exchanger’s clogged,” she says with frustration when she notices him standing beside her.
He knows what the heat exchanger is. Mom once compared the inside of the boiler to a maze that hot water runs through. He doesn’t understand all the details, but he knows that if the problem is the exchanger, it’s serious.
“Can I help?” he offers.
Mom looks up for the first time since he left the bathroom and frowns. “What I want is for you to dry off, Teddy. You’ll catch pneumonia.”
He huffs, offended. “You’re always saying you need someone to help you. I can help.”
“Not this time,” she replies, her eyes on the pressure gauge still showing red. “This job needs four real hands, not small ones.”
That stings his pride. He crosses his arms and stays in the doorway, still shivering as water runs down his back.
Mom stands suddenly and wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll see if Mr. Reynolds is home, maybe he can lend a hand,” she mutters, heading for the hallway.
She’s back only a couple of minutes later. He’s sitting on one of the kitchen stools, his head resting in his hands. Mom leans on the counter across from him and tilts her head back with a long sigh.
“Alright…”
She takes her phone, scrolls through her contacts, and dials. He watches as she lowers the volume while waiting for someone to pick up.
“Tess?”
It’s a man’s voice. Deep. He doesn’t recognize it at first, but then he does. His eyes widen in surprise. Why does his mom have Joel’s number?
“Hey, sorry to bother you so late, but we’ve got a problem here… Uh-huh… Yeah, the boiler… Uh-huh… I can fix it, but I need help moving… Right, that’s it. It’s too heavy. Yeah. Okay. Sure. No, of course, I’m not going anywhere.”
She hangs up and sets the phone down on the counter. Then she leans against it, stretching her back as if just making the call had exhausted her.
“Don’t you have homework to do?” she asks when she realizes he’s still there.
Ha. As if he’s going anywhere now that the big guy from the diner is coming over. He shakes his head.
“Does your friend know how to fix boilers?”
Mom sighs. “I hope so, or we’ll have to stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s until someone comes to repair it.”
He loves Grandma Flo and Grandpa Marlon, but after spending a few long weeks with them in the past, he knows they can be… a lot. He really hopes Joel’s a pro at fixing heat exchangers.
“Come on, Ted, go to your room and find something to do. I don’t want you in the way while we move this.”
He doesn’t move. He stays on the stool, legs dangling, cold hands gripping the edge of the counter. Mom doesn’t insist. Maybe she already knows he isn’t going anywhere.
When someone knocks on the door, his heart jumps. The sound echoes through the quiet apartment, blending with the boiler’s uneven thudding. Mom wipes her hands on a rag and goes to open it.
Joel stands in the doorway, scarf half undone, hat in one hand, and a metal toolbox in the other, so full it looks like it might burst. The cold air follows him in, spreading all the way to the kitchen.
“Hi,” he says softly, unsure whether to smile.
“Well, you look ready for battle,” Mom says, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the toolbox.
He shrugs, awkward. “Just… brought a few things. Just in case.”
Mom crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe, as if that simple gesture marks an invisible boundary between the entryway and the rest of the apartment.
“I’ve got everything I need.”
“Right.” Joel nods quickly, eyes on the floor. “Didn’t mean… I just thought you might need a hand.”
The boy catches the exact moment Mom’s lips curve into the tiniest smile, and how Joel seems to relax just a little when he sees it.
For a second, no one says anything. The only sound is the low pounding of the boiler from the kitchen. Then Mom steps aside, just enough to let him in.
“It’s in there.”
She leads him to the kitchen. The boiler panel is still leaning against the wall, the steam clouding the glass, droplets scattered on the floor. The air smells like hot metal.
He stays on his stool, pretending not to stare. Joel takes a couple of seconds to notice him.
“Hey,” Joel says, a little awkwardly. “How’s it going, champ?”
He isn’t sure what to say, so he just nods, suddenly aware that he’s barefoot and that Mom is watching them both.
“He should be in bed already,” Mom says without looking up, checking the tools on the counter.
Joel clears his throat, uncomfortable. “It’s fine. I… uh… won’t take long.”
She doesn’t answer, but her silence fills the whole room.
“The support’s loose. I can’t tighten the valves unless someone holds it up. It’s heavier than it looks,” she finally says, climbing onto the stool to point.
Joel nods and sets his toolbox down in a corner. “Tell me what to do.”
He rolls up his sleeves and positions himself in front of the cabinet. He’s so tall he has to bend a little to slide his arms underneath the unit. His large hands fit perfectly in the narrow space between the boiler and the wall.
“Hold it from underneath, right here,” she says, pointing to the metal base. “That’s all. Keep pressure upward while I tighten the support and the return valve.”
“Like this?”
“A little higher… there. Don’t move.”
She puts on her reading glasses from the pocket of her sweatshirt and grabs her wrench. The boiler rattles slightly each time she tightens a bolt, but Joel holds steady.
The boy watches from his stool. He can’t look away from them — Mom balanced on the stool, focused and precise, her hands moving with practiced confidence; Joel crouched down, motionless, steady as part of the machine.
“Lift it half an inch,” she says. “Just a bit more.”
Joel does as told without saying a word. The movement is barely visible, but Mom nods with satisfaction.
“Perfect. Hold it right there.”
Steam rises in thin waves, and the air starts to smell of warm dust. Mom leans closer, reaches behind the unit, and tightens one last bolt until her knuckles turn white.
“Can I do something?” Teddy asks from his seat.
“Yes, you can put on some socks,” she replies without looking at him.
He sighs. “I could hold it too.”
“No, honey. This needs muscle, not enthusiasm.”
He frowns. Joel looks like he’s suppressing a smile, and Mom shoots him a quick glance that makes him straighten up immediately.
“Alright, I think that’s it,” she says at last, dropping the wrench onto the counter. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “Now let go slowly.”
Joel follows her instructions. The boiler stays firm, steady, no more rattling. Only the soft tick-tick of cooling metal fills the silence. Mom steps down from the stool, crouches to check the seals, and runs her hand over the surface.
“Perfect. No more shaking.”
Joel exhales deeply and rubs the back of his neck. “Told you the toolbox was just in case.”
Mom shakes her head with a small smile — one of those that doesn’t quite show but changes her whole face.
“I told you I just needed someone strong.”
He shrugs, still a bit embarrassed. “Well, at least I’m good for that.”
She laughs quietly and switches off her phone’s flashlight. For a moment, the apartment is calm again, filled only with the low hum of the boiler warming back up.
The boy watches them in silence. He can’t really explain it, but something about the way Mom looks at Joel now feels different. It’s not just gratitude. It’s like she’s letting herself breathe for the first time in a while.
Then, as if remembering her manners, Mom offers him coffee for his trouble. She says it’s the least she can do after dragging him all the way to the kitchen, that he deserves it, that it’s not like he did much besides stand there holding something heavier than she is.
Joel shakes his head. He says something about Sarah being home alone. Mom frowns with a mix of understanding and resignation, then nods without adding anything. The boy watches her closely, wondering if Sarah is his wife or something. He remembers hearing Joel mention someone at the diner, and later Mom had talked about him in the plural. So it makes sense. He probably has a family.
He imagines what that family looks like — a dad and a mom, a son and a daughter. The kind of family that fills almost every seat in the car, the middle row on a big airplane, all four chairs at a restaurant table. The kind of family that has a movie-dog: a golden retriever, or a labrador, or maybe a German shepherd lying next to the fireplace.
***
He sees them first at the mall.
Mom and he are there because they’ve gone to buy new sneakers for school. It’s a tedious task that neither of them enjoys, but the truth is that his favorite pair is falling apart and starting to feel tight, which means he’s growing, which is good, because maybe one day he’ll stop being the shortest kid in his class. So he really needs new shoes.
They get lucky and find a pair they both like in the very first store they enter, so they can quickly move on to the second part of the plan: eating a cheeseburger with fries as a reward for finally getting the shopping done.
That’s when he sees them.
Joel.
And two girls. One is tall and very pretty, with curly, fluffy hair and big eyes. The other is a head shorter, almost red-haired and scrawny. The first looks like the kind who always gets straight A’s, the sort teachers use as examples. The second looks more like the kind who gets detention for talking in class or forgetting her homework.
The curly-haired girl seems to be the one in charge, because when they walk past the counter of the burger place where Mom and he have just ordered, she suddenly stops and gestures for them to eat there.
“Look, your friend Joel,” he says to his mom, who seems very focused on reading the receipt the cashier just handed her.
“Mmm?” Mom doesn’t seem to get it.
“Your friend. The boiler guy. The sheriff. Look, there.” He points straight at them, even though Mom has told him hundreds of times that pointing is rude.
What happens next is like a strange dance. Mom looks up and quickly looks away, but Joel has already seen her—and seen him too—and he waves, and then the girls notice and seem surprised, and Joel tries to look elsewhere, but the girls point at him, and then Mom turns her head again and sighs, her shoulders dropping.
“…Tess, from the diner…” the red-haired girl says to the other as they walk toward them.
He perks up his ears. Neither of the girls looks familiar. They both seem at least three or four years older than him, so they must go to the high school on the edge of town, while the elementary school is in the center, near city hall.
“Hey, what a coincidence,” Joel says when he’s standing in front of them. He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat.
“Hi, Tess,” says the shorter girl with a little more enthusiasm.
“Good to see you, Ellie,” Mom replies with a polite nod. Her voice sounds friendly but a bit tense. “Joel.”
“Tess.” He nods too, and stands there for a moment, unsure whether to put his hands in his pockets or cross his arms.
The boy watches them like he’s following a tennis match. Words bounce back and forth, but no one seems to want to win the point. They almost look like strangers.
“Hi, Joel,” he says.
“Howdy, Theodore?” the man replies with an awkward smile.
“We came to eat cheeseburgers,” he says a little lamely, since that’s pretty obvious.
“Good choice,” Joel says, though he doesn’t seem to be thinking about food.
Suddenly, the shorter girl takes a step forward and breaks the silence with a clear, almost cheeky voice.
“Joel always orders the same thing,” she says, looking at him. “If you let him, he’d live off coffee and bacon.”
“That’s not true,” Joel protests, though not very convincingly.
The curly-haired girl smiles, amused, and adds, “Yes, it is. I’m his daughter. I know.”
He blinks, confused.
“Your daughter?”
Joel nods, trying to seem casual.
“Sarah,” he says, introducing her.
Sarah smiles back at him, but there’s something odd about it, a slight stiffness that doesn’t go unnoticed. The boy can’t say why, but he has the feeling that she’s not too happy about her dad and his mom knowing each other.
The silence that follows feels thick, like the air before a storm.
No one seems to know what to say. Mom runs a hand through her hair, pretending to check the receipt again. Joel clears his throat but doesn’t speak. Sarah looks away, as if the neon burrito sign across the food court had suddenly become fascinating.
Trying to break the tension, Mom smiles politely at her.
“So… what do you think of Jackson? I guess you’re still getting used to it, right?”
Sarah takes a couple of seconds to react, as if she didn’t expect to be addressed directly.
“Yeah… well, it’s nice,” she says at last, in a polite but neutral tone. “It’s really different from Austin. Quieter. And colder, obviously.”
Mom nods, unsure how to keep the conversation going.
“Yeah, you’ll get used to it,” she says finally, a little too fast, as if she’s run out of words.
Joel clears his throat again.
“Well…” he murmurs, glancing at the counter. “We should order before it gets too crowded.”
“Of course,” Mom answers quickly, almost relieved. “You can take our table if you want. We’re done anyway.”
Joel looks up, surprised.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, of course. We were just leaving.” She shrugs and picks up her tray quickly, like she’s afraid someone might change their mind.
He nods slowly, and that gesture seems to close the scene.
“Thanks.”
Sarah mumbles a quiet “nice to meet you.” Ellie waves casually, more at ease, and Joel just smiles awkwardly, not quite sure what else to say.
“See you around,” he finally says, in that neutral tone that doesn’t really mean he expects to.
“See you,” Mom replies, her voice just as measured.
They leave the food court with their empty trays and the low murmur of the mall around them. Teddy walks beside her, thinking about what just happened.
“You didn’t already know Sarah?” he asks after a while.
Mom takes a moment before answering.
“No. In the mornings it’s just Joel and Ellie at the diner.”
He frowns, thoughtful.
“And Ellie’s his daughter too?”
Mom lets out a soft laugh, though not very convincingly.
“I don’t think so, honey. I’m not sure.” Then, as if she doesn’t want to keep talking about it, she adds, “Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late.”
He nods, though his mind keeps turning it over as they ride down the escalator.
Joel, the boiler, the pretty daughter, the weird girl… it all starts to seem like part of a bigger mystery than the ones they show on the History Channel.
***
Sunday mornings are the perfect time to sneak into Mom’s bed and slide under the sheets beside her.
She barely stirs when he curls up close to her, but she lazily stretches out an arm to wrap around him, her hand tracing slow, absentminded circles on his back.
Maybe soon he’ll have to stop doing it, now that he’s turned ten. He’s not sure at what age boys are supposed to stop climbing into their parents’ bed for a little more sleep. The only thing he knows for sure is that it’s something he’s always done.
Mom says that at first it was his dad who would take him out of his crib and lay him between them, and that later, when he learned to walk, he’d run in by himself to take his place.
He doesn’t remember that.
Sometimes he likes to imagine that his dad is on the other side of the bed, hugging him too, even if he can’t remember what his hugs felt like.
It’s strange, having a dad who’s dead, and that he died before he was old enough to remember him. Mom tells him how good he was to him and how much he loved him, and she shows him pictures often, though he already knows them all by heart because there aren’t that many.
His favorite one is on his nightstand. It was taken on his first birthday. He’s sitting in a high chair with a smashed-up piece of cake in front of him, his face covered in frosting and chocolate sprinkles. Mom and Dad are on either side, both grinning from ear to ear. Mom is looking at the camera, but Dad is looking at him. His eyes are crinkled from his smile.
He wasn’t a particularly big or strong guy, but that’s not surprising, since he’s one of the shortest kids in his class (though also one of the fastest, thank you very much).
Mom says he was very brave.
He likes having a brave father.
He would like it even more to have a brave living father.
He doesn’t remember anything about the hospital months, or about when his dad got so sick he couldn’t get out of bed again. Aunt Sophie moved in with them to take care of him while Mom took care of Dad, and he guesses it must have been both a good and bad time, because Aunt Sophie is the best aunt in the world and really fun, but Dad was very sick and everyone knew he was going to die soon.
The boy is very familiar with that feeling, happiness and sadness at the same time. Right now, for example, he’s happy to be there, curled up next to Mom, feeling the warmth of her body and her hand on his back, knowing he’s lucky because he has the best mother in the world. She’s without a doubt the smartest person he knows, one of the few adults who doesn’t hesitate to get down on the floor to play with him anywhere, who’s great at sports and basically anything she sets her mind to, and on top of that, she’s also the prettiest. So he figures he’s pretty much hit the jackpot in the mom lottery.
But he’s also sad, because he could have a dad, and he doesn’t, and he never will, and he doesn’t even miss him in a real way—only through the memories other people have put in his head.
And sometimes he feels like he and his mom aren’t enough when he compares himself to his classmates who have dads and brothers and uncles and cousins and grandparents, and a whole crowd of relatives filling the seats at Christmas plays and talent shows, while he only has Mom, who works a lot, and Aunt Sophie, who lives far away, and Grandpa Marlon and Grandma Flo, whom he loves very much, but who are sometimes a little weird.
Sometimes, when he’s like this, with his head resting against Mom’s side, he can feel her chest rise and fall slowly. He likes listening to the sound of her breathing; it’s like the ocean waves they play in stores to help people relax.
Mom always says she’s tired, but he suspects it’s not just because of work.
Sometimes he catches her staring out the window, doing nothing, as if she’s thinking about something far away. When he asks what she’s looking at, she smiles and says nothing, that she’s just resting.
But her voice sounds different, softer.
Maybe all adults have sad things that can’t be fixed with a wrench, like pipes or the boiler.
He doesn’t know if his mother is thinking about his father when she gets like that, or if she’s thinking about something else, something she doesn’t tell him.
But he doesn’t care. Really, the only thing he wants in that moment is for her not to move her arm, and to keep tracing her fingers gently along his back.
Outside, the sunlight slips through the curtains and warms the room.
On the nightstand, the birthday photo still sits in its frame, and for a moment, he likes to imagine that his dad is on the other side of the bed, smiling just like in the picture.
Then he closes his eyes and thinks that even though the world sometimes breaks, like the boiler, or old toys, Mom always manages to fix everything.
And that’s enough to make him fall back asleep in peace.