I sat at the breakfast table, accepting the coffee Brad handed me—perfectly prepared, though I hadn't told him how I took it. "It means I help kids who learn differently be part of regular classrooms. My job is to normalize their lives as much as possible so they can participate in whatever activities they want—whether it's sports, music, art club, or just hanging out with friends at recess. Some kids need extra help with reading, some need breaks to move around, some need quieter spaces to work. The goal is making sure no one gets left behind."
"Like me with my breathing stuff?"
"Exactly like that. You know how you use your inhaler before PE? That's an accommodation—something that helps you participate like everyone else."
Finn nodded seriously. "Tommy Morty says accommodations are cheating."
"Tommy Morty is wrong," Brad said firmly, flipping a pancake with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Well," I said carefully, "some people don't understand that fair doesn't mean everyone gets the same thing. Fair means everyone gets what they need. Like, you wouldn't say someone wearing glasses to see the board is cheating, right?"
"That's different," Finn protested.
"How?"
He thought about it while Brad plated pancakes—they really did look like hockey pucks, complete with markings etched into the surface. "I guess... it's not different. They need glasses to see, I need inhalers to breathe."
"Exactly. And Tommy Morty probably needs something too, even if he doesn't know it yet. Sometimes people who say mean things are struggling with their own challenges."
Brad set a plate in front of me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder. "Tommy Morty's dad is also a jerk, so there's that genetic component to consider."
"Brad!" I laughed, scandalized. "You can't say that in front of—"
"Dad says we can use accurate descriptors as long as they're not mean-spirited," Finn announced, drowning his pancakes in syrup. "Tommy's dad yells at refs and says kids with asthma shouldn't play sports."
"Ah." I took a bite of pancake. They were perfect—fluffy, slightly crispy at the edges, with a hint of vanilla. "Well, Tommy's dad is wrong too. Kids with medical conditions can do amazing things with the right support. I once had a student with severe asthma who became a competitive swimmer."
"Really?" Finn's eyes widened. "But swimming is hard breathing!"
"It is. But the humid air in pools actually helps some people with asthma. And he learned to pace himself, to recognize his triggers, to manage his condition while still doing what he loved."
"Could I..." Finn glanced at his dad, then back at me. "Could I maybe play hockey? Real hockey, not just shooting pucks in the driveway?"
The kitchen went quiet. Brad's knuckles were white around his coffee mug.
"That's something you and your dad would need to discuss with your doctor," I said gently. "But I don't see why not, with the right precautions and planning."
"Dad's scared," Finn said matter-of-factly. "He thinks I'll stop breathing and die like Mom died three years ago."
My heart cracked. Brad set down his mug carefully, too carefully.
"Finn—"
"It's true, isn't it?" Finn's voice stayed steady, but his eyes were sad. "You're scared all the time. That's why we have three inhalers in every room and why you check the weather constantly and why you watch me sleep sometimes."
"You know I watch you sleep?"
"Dad. Your floor creaks. I'm seven, not deaf."
I wanted to flee, to give them privacy for this conversation, but Finn's hand found mine, anchoring me to my stool.
"I am scared," Brad admitted quietly. "Every day. But that's my job—to worry so you don't have to."
"But I do worry," Finn said. "I worry that you're sad. I worry that you don't date anyone because of me. I worry that we'll never have fun like we used to when Mom was here."
Brad moved around the counter, pulling Finn into a hug that engulfed the small boy. "We have fun."
"Controlled fun," Finn mumbled into his dad's chest. "Measured fun. Safe fun."
