“Sorry,” I say over my shoulder. Bridge of my nose pinched tight between my fingers, I walk away while keeping Jonas firmly planted in my periphery, along with the gossiping moms on the opposite side of the schoolyard.
It was a stupid idea to bring all the students and their parents here to celebrate the last day of school. In a small town where everyone knows everyone, this sort of forced mingling becomes a cesspool of rumors and stink eyes. No amount of fruit punch and barbecued hot dogs can mend relationshipsthat have been fractured since we were all little kids on this very playground.
“Boys will be boys,” one of the gossiping moms, Megan, says through a hearty fake laugh on my approach. “I’msoglad I had girls.”
Smoothing down the front of my buttoned blouse, I step over the railway tie dividing the children’s area from the adults’. The dark wood creates a harsh line between dusty gray pea gravel and green grass. The difference between retaliating against your enemies with handfuls of rocks or catty words.
“Yeah.Kids can be quite a handful.” I tamp down what Iwantto say, plastering on a fake smile to match hers. My go-to pacifying Stepford Wife appearance. I wear it so often and so well, there’s an argument to be had about whether this is my real smile now.
“Must be nice having the energy to chase him around…. Guess that’s a perk of getting your parenting years startedearly.” Megan makes the same comment I’ve heard approximately a million times from the moms around here. They love nothing more than making digs about the fact that I had a kid straight out of high school, as if that’s a crime.
She tilts her head to watch Jonas and his friend play-fighting.Lord, I hope it’s play-fighting.“Jonas is so much like Alex was.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d saythat.”
Alex was a fucking terror. And while I loved how much my parents hated him back when I was a teen, I don’t want Jonas to be anything like Alex was.Is.
“Mmm,” she hums through pursed lips. “How many times was Jonas suspended this year?”
Megan’s friends—minions, rather—avert their eyes and quickly bring cups of punch to their lips.
“Boys will be boys, right? Jonas is…well, he’snotAlex.” I tuck a lock of pin-straight hair behind my ear, conscious ofmy quickening pulse. “Anyway, I need to get home for a work meeting. You ladies have a great summer.”
Not waiting for their reply, I step back into kid world and consider picking up a handful of rocks—or maybe grabbing the spitball contraption it appears Jonas is holding—and aiming right for Megan’s face. The problem with trying to raise a child who isn’t like Alex is knowing I need to set a good example for him. Even—or maybe especially—when it’s hard.
The noise of parents slowly fades into shrieking children, the incessant squeak of a seesaw in need of oil, and sneakers running through dense gravel. Kids mill about everywhere, already in cliques that mirror the adults, and Jonas slips the dismantled ballpoint pen into the back pocket of his jeans when he sees me looming.
“Hey, buddy.” I sidle up next to him, reaching down and discreetly yanking the spitball weapon away. He turns to glare at me, and I slip my free hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a hug. I plant a loud, smacking kiss on the top of his messy blond hair, much to his disgust.
Teach him to give me nasty looks on the playground.
“I’ve gotta go. We have dinner at your grandparents’ tonight. Comestraight homeafter school, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs off my embrace.
“Straight. Home.”
“Yes,Mom. You can leave now.”
“Weird of you to call me mom like it’s an insult.” I tousle his hair for good measure, doing double duty by humbling him in front of his friends and making us look like a loving mother-son duo to any gossips on the sidelines. “See you at home.Love you.”
• • •
Shortly after six p.m., Jonas and I stand on my parents’ front stoop with the sun at our backs and a wisp of a breezefluttering the tips of my hair. My hand hesitates on the door handle, and I give him a look. “Best behavior.”
“Don’t make that face. You look like Roz fromMonsters, Inc.” He mock frowns, launching into a rough impression of Roz’s throaty voice.“Jonas Hart, you better behave at Grandma’s house.”
“I’m serious, Jonas. You’re lucky to be seeing the light of day right now.” I give him an earnest look. “Grandma’s been having a rough time lately, and you make her happy. Only reason you’re out of jail a night early.”
Jonas’s lips roll together for a moment, and he murmurs, “Best behavior. Promise.”
Late last year, Mom was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, and while having the actual diagnosis was difficult to stomach, it also came as no surprise to me. Because I work from home and live around the corner from my parents, I’ve been the first point of contact for every missing set of keys, forgotten item, and general brain fog moment. Rather, Iwasthat go-to person until my sister moved back home a few months ago to take care of Mom.
“Hey,” I call out from the entryway, kicking off my sneakers next to Jonas. He gets a running start and slides into the living room in socked feet, earning a laugh from my mom. Whether she’s lucid or not, he seems to know exactly how to brighten her day.
Nothing in my parents’ house has changed in decades. The forest-green couch I had my first kiss on, the white-and-baby-blue geese decor in the kitchen, and my sister’s various achievements lining the mantel. The entire place has a golden hue, our family photos look happy, and a warm cinnamon aroma lingers in the air.
It feels homey, but it doesn’t feel like my home. Never really has.
