But I didn’t lie when I told her weeks ago that I didn’t mind waiting a lifetime. I meant every word.
And Kael… fuck. My son is the most incredible child that exists.
“No,” he answers, whispering too. “She always sleeps. Then we tell her everything later.” He explains, and I smile before nodding.
We watch the movie. At some point, Kael stops sitting upright and lies down on the couch, resting his head on my lap and his little feet on Nina’s thighs. I stop caring about whatever’s happening on the screen.
I lower my gaze and fall in love with every detail of my boy. I stroke his hair, watch his lashes flutter each time he blinks, and try to memorize every expression that crosses his face as he reacts to the movie.
When I left Greece and boarded that plane to Italy, I knew I owed Nina more than I could ever repay. The debt was too big. Far too big. I also knew I’d never be grateful enough for the son she gave me—even before I’d met him.
What I didn’t know was that there would be another gratitude, one I’d never be able to express in words, gestures, or anything else. The kind that tightens my chest until it suffocates me every time I think about it—which is all the time. Gratitude for her making me part of my son’s life even when I refused to be.
Kael looks at me like I’m his superhero. Because even if I’ve only known him for a few weeks, I’ve always been in his heart.I’m in his memories, his tastes, his daily life. I’ve always been present in the most important places—even without knowing it—because Nina worked tirelessly to make it so. There’s no way to thank someone for that.
“Do you know how to wash dishes?” Kael asks, still whispering, as he lifts his head from my lap. I notice the credits rolling on the screen.
I blink several times, chasing away the tears that gathered while I drifted.
“No,” I answer, curious where this is going.
Kael carefully slides off the couch and walks a few steps away. When he notices I’m not following, he turns back and beckons me with his hand.
I stand and follow him. He leaves the living room, walks around the small counter, and enters the open kitchen. It’s quick—the house is small and identical to the one next door, where my brothers and I are staying. Still without Kael’s mother knowing.
Downstairs there’s the living room, the kitchen, a bathroom, and a laundry area. Upstairs, two bedrooms and another bathroom.
Kael pulls a small stool from under the kitchen counter and positions it in front of the sink.
“I’m going to climb the stool to wash the dishes. But I can’t wash the cutlery. For that, I have to call an adult. So you’ll have to wash those.”
His explanation makes me laugh. Kael scolds me, climbs onto the stool, and goes up on his tiptoes to check if his mom woke up. She didn’t.
“Sorry. I forgot,” I whisper. He shakes his head at me, reprimanding. This time, I swallow the laugh.
If Kael has my face, he has Nina’s gestures entirely—from the wide, toothy smile to the frequent eye-rolls.
“Okay. Let’s go. Pay attention so when it’s your turn, you do it right,” he demands.
I nod obediently. Seconds later, I’m melting all over my son again.
Is it normal to want to cry watching your kid wash dishes?
Kael washes two plates, two cups, and two plastic dessert bowls. Then he turns to me.
“It’s my turn, right?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he confirms. He steps off the stool, shifts it aside, then climbs back up. I take the sponge, and Kael supervises.
He watches closely as I wash forks, knives, and spoons. When I’m done, he pulls a dish towel from under the sink, behind the curtain.
“Now we have to dry,” he says, grabbing one of the plates. He rubs it with the towel in circles. “It’s like this, but I don’t know how to do it, because I try forever and it never gets dry.”
This time, I bring a hand to my mouth to stifle the laugh I can’t swallow. Kael scolds me again and hands me the towel.
I dry the dishes—and although it really does take a while, I don’t hand him anything until it’s perfectly dry.
“What are you doing?” Nina’s voice asks, and I turn toward her.
