He pouts, folding his arms. It’s a look that would be funny if it didn’t mirror my own mood so perfectly. “You said that last time we were here…and then we never got them because you said you forgot…”
“I know.” My voice comes out flat, distant even to my own ears.
He huffs and kicks the cart again.
Normally, I’d tell him to stop, maybe even threaten to take away his tablet for the night, but I don’t because I know this isn’t just about marshmallows or him not getting his way.
He’s been like this all day—whiny, easily frustrated, talking back in ways that are so unlike him that it startled me the first few times it happened.
I know exactly why he’s misbehaving.
It’s not the holidays, or the crowds, or the sugar crash from the cookie dough he snuck this morning from Mrs. Ida’s fresh batch when we popped next door for a quick snack.
It’sme.
Eli’s always been sensitive to his surroundings, even as a baby.
He’s the kind of kid who notices when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, or when your voice trembles even though you’re saying everything’s fine.
He’s smart, maybe too smart for his own good sometimes, and lately he’s been picking up on my moods like a sponge soaking up a spill.
Every sigh, every too-long distracted pause in between responses, every night when I stare at my phone before taking him to bed—it’s all been absorbed by him.
And now it’s leaking out in the only way a five-year-old knows how to express themselves: attitude.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest as we turn down the baking aisle and he eyes the boxes of mixes.
I reach for a box of yellow cake mix and set it in the cart, watching him fiddle with the zipper on his jacket.
His hair’s sticking up in all directions, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and for a moment I just stop and look at him.
He’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
The only part of my life that makes sense.
And yet, here I am, dragging him through my mess all because I can’t handle my own shit.
“Hey,” I say softly, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. “You know what kind of frosting Grampy likes?”
He looks up, suspicion written all over his little face. “The chocolate one that comes with sprinkles.”
I force a smile, trying to sound happier than I feel. “Yeah? Then that’s what we’ll get. You can help me put it all together when we get home.”
That earns me a small smile.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
As we move down the aisle, I focus on the simple things: the sound of the cart’s wheels squeaking by, the hum of the refrigerators, the faint chatter of other shoppers with their lists in their hands.
It’s almost peaceful if I close my eyes and listen hard enough, if I let myself pretend that the last few years haven’t been a slow-motion whirlwind of complete chaos.
I end up taking Eli out of the cart to stretch his legs and pray it gets some of his restless energy out of him.
He bounces around, touching everything within arm’s reach and asking for snacks like we don’t already have dozens of at home.
But I figure a few minutes of walking might burn him out.
We turn the corner into the next aisle, and my heart nearly stops. There, standing at the opposite end in front of the bread display is Dean, holding a loaf of sourdough like he’s just stepped out of a Lifetime movie and straight into this reality.
