Once their buckled in, I climb into the driver’s seat and twist the key into the ignition. The van graons and stutters before reluctantly coming to life.
Thank the Gods.The last thing I can afford right now is my only source of transportation dying on me.
“How was your day, boys?” I change the subject as I carefully back out of the parking space. “Did you have fun at your class parties?”
“We watchedThe Polar Expressand had hot chocolate with marshmallows!” Jackson chirps, instantly distracted from thoughts of his father. “And Sophia shared her candy canes with me!”
“That was nice of her.” I glance at the boys in my rearview mirror. “How about you, Tommy?”
Tommy shrugs his shoulders. “It was okay. We had pizza and watchedThe Grinch.”
I chuckle. That’s my oldest. Always playing it cool.
“Mrs. Rivera brought in cookies shaped like snowflakes,” he adds after a moment, a hint of a smile breaking through his serious facade. “They had blue sprinkles and icing.”
“Yum! That sounds good,” I admit, turning onto the main road. “We’ll have to make some of those cookies, too, during break.”
“I don’t see why we had to move,” Tommy grumbles, looking out the window. “All my friends live in Pembrooke.”
And just like that, all talk of Christmas parties is done.
Sighing, my eyes flick to the rearview. I know this move wasn’t on his BINGO card. I get it. And he’s had to adapt to so much in his life. Leaving behind the few friends he’s made is just one more thing to change.
“I know it’s tough, buddy,” I say gently. “But you’ll make friends at the new house.”
I glance at him again in the mirror and catch him rolling his eyes.
“And our new house has three bedrooms, so you and Jackson will have your own room. No more sharing with mommy,” I add.
“So?” His arms cross over his chest.
“And it’s in a safer neighborhood,” I tack on.
“The old neighborhood wasn’t that bad,” he insists, though we both know that’s not true at all.
Just last month, there was a shooting right outside our building. Tommy had been the one to pull Jackson to the floor when we heard the gunshots, his little body shielding his baby brother’s. No eight-year-old should have those kinds of reflexes.
“The new place has a backyard,” I remind him, trying to focus on the positives. “You’ll be able to play outside whenever you want.”
This seems to pique his interest. “Can we get a dog?”
“We’ll talk about it.”
This seems to appease him somewhat, and he nods, turning back to look out the window.
“We’re here!”I pull into the driveway of our new home. The small yellow bungalow has certainly seen better days. The paint is peeling, the front porch sags to one side, and the yard is more weeds than grass, but it’s in a decent neighborhood.
“Who’s that?” Tommy points to the shiny black Town Car parked at the curb, and the balding man in a tracksuit standing on the sidewalk, checking his watch impatiently.
“Who is that? Is this our new house?” Jackson asks at the same time, pressing his face against the window.
“That’s Mr. Peterson, the landlord. And yes, this is our new house,” I confirm, putting the van in park. The engine gives a concerning sputter before falling silent.
“It looks kinda junky,” Tommy says bluntly.
I can’t exactly disagree, but I try to sound upbeat. “It just needs a little love, that’s all. We’ll fix it up and make it homey in no time.” It’s not the greatest rental on the planet, but on my salary, it’s what I could afford.
Tommy looks unconvinced, but Jackson is already unbuckling his seat belt, ready to explore.
