“It was so good!” Nick sings quietly, hopping off his stool. “I saved you noodles, Mommy.”
“Mom, I thought we talked about this. Takeout is a treat only for the weekends.”
“Then you should have been home, shouldn’t you?”
I grit my teeth so hard that pain flashes through my jaw and my irritation climbs as Nick tucks at my leg. “Mommy!”
“I had to work,” I bite out. “I called.”
“You chose work, I chose takeout. We all make bad decisions.”
“Mommy!”
“It’s not a bad decision when I’m the only one bringing money into this house.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Mom pulls her hands out of the soap-filled sink and turns to face me. “I’m a grieving widow! The workplace is no space for me while I’m like this.”
“We’re all grieving, but the world doesn’t stop just because you’re in pain.” It’s like an itch heating up the back of my neck as each word scrapes against my patience while Nick tugs at my leg again.
“Mommy!”
“If I were working, who would be taking care of Nick?” Mom snaps back.
“Someone who wouldn’t ignore my requests about what he eats!”
“Mommy!”
“What?” The moment I snap down at Nick, I instantly regret it as his big, wide eyes immediately flood with tears.
“Well done,” Mom mutters as Nick bursts into tears.
Biting my tongue hard, I scoop him up and leave the kitchen. “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy didn’t mean to yell.”
Louder and louder he cries, gasping against my neck and pushing at me with his hands until his card threatens to crumple against my clothes. I carry him with me through the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom.
“I’m sorry. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m sorry.”
“I–I just want—wanted to tell you a–about school!” he wails, sobbing from a mix of upset and overtiredness with how late it is.
“I know. Mommy’s tired too. That's why she snapped. I’m sorry. You’re okay. You’re okay.” Sitting down on his bed, I gather him in my arms and rock back and forth, fighting the sting of tears that rise behind my eyes. He doesn’t deserve this. Every time I swear Nick will never bear the brunt of my anger, something catches me off guard and I end up snapping.
Maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought.
Thankfully, Nick’s tears don’t last too long and when he calms, he tells me all about the exciting things he did at kindergarten. From coloring and drawing, to experimenting with soft clay to make little figurines, and a new type of pasta at lunch, he tells me every detail as I get him ready for bed. By the time I tuck him under the covers, his eyelids are drooping.
“I can’t wait to go back… tomorrow,” he says with a wide yawn. “But I can’t tell you, okay? It’s a secret.”
“What’s a secret?” I ask while sitting next to him.
“The clay thing I made. A secret.”
“Oh, okay, a secret clay thing. I won’t pry.”
“Good, because I won’t tell you. I’m great at keeping secrets.”
“Yes, you are.” With a warm smile, I lean down and kiss his forehead. “Do you want a story tonight?”
“Yes please!”
