At what point in his young life had he become this way, when things didn’t go right and he couldn’t deal?
Even worse, it was a hard pill to swallow knowing I probably had the most influence on him. As a single father, I did the best I could. But there were times my patience wore thin. Trying to balance everything. Something I wasn’t proud of.
I vowed to do better. I had to. For him. For me. For the future.
We heard Jessa open the pantry cabinet and making all kinds of noise. Then she finally returned.
“Voila.” She placed a red rotini noodle where their red archer should be.
“A noodle?” I cocked a brow. “That’s your solution?”
“Yep. A red one, too.”
“We can’t play with noodles.” Theo’s potential temper tantrum simmered down to nothing more than a giggle.
“Sure we can.” She reached over and tickled him under the armpits, making his giggles last longer.
I couldn’t deny what I saw in front of me. She certainly had a way with him unlike any woman I’d seen before.
“My sisters and I could only ever afford used West Games from garage sales. Often they would come with missing pieces. So we got good at making our own out of dried noodles or bits of this and that,” she explained.
“I want to make a game out of noodles,” Theo said.
The news struck me hard.
Her family bought my company’s games used at garage sales. Because they couldn’t afford them new.
We priced each game at a premium on the market. Even with occasional sales, families hit with tough economic times would consider buying games a luxury. My argument over that had always been that board games were more educational and social for a family than video games.
But hearing it from Jessa. Knowing her family had to improvise with pasta. Something shifted deep inside of me.
I was engrossed in my own thoughts about how we could make our games more affordable as Theo carefully moved the pasta piece around the board. Treating it as if it were gold.
Then he shouted so loud the neighbors probably heard.
“We won! We actually beat Dad!”
I jerked my head and studied the board. Sure enough. I’d lost.
Theo jumped into Jessa’s lap. Pumping his fists.
I leaned back. Clapping slowly. Smile wide. Pride in my eyes.
“Not bad, kiddo. See what happens when you have patience and strategize? Good win.”
Theo beamed, soaking up my every word.
For a moment, with laughter echoing in the apartment and Jessa’s gaze catching mine across the living room, it felt like what I’d always imagined home should be.
We packed up the game and stood in the kitchen, talking and joking around, making an evening snack of air-popped popcorn. I stood there, surrounded by the domesticity of it all. When had playing the part started to feel less like an act and more like something I didn't want to lose?
Eventually, Jessa and Theo disappeared into the kitchen again, whispering and laughing over some secret project. Every time I tried to peek, they shooed me out like a kid interrupting Santa’s workshop.
I gave up, turned on the game, and let the noise fill the space. No meetings. No phones. Just the hum of the city beyond the glass and the muffled sound of their laughter carrying on the air.
It was my birthday, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want for a single thing.
Chapter Eighteen
