“True, you little monkey. But you sleep at night.”
“And how long until night?”
“Three hours.”
“My age,” he replies, and I know he’s holding up three fingers. He always does. Knowing something so simple about my son puts a smile on my face every time.
“A little less. You’re three years old.”
“Right. Wait, Daddy—” He tries to blind me with the Legos again, smacking the hard edge against my forehead when I pull him forward carefully. Kael stops in front of us, demanding our full attention, and performs an exaggerated yawn he absolutely does not feel.
“Look, Mom, I’m suuuper sleepy like this.” He stretches his arms wide and negotiates. “I can take a nap this afternoon, and then if I take just a liiiittle while to fall asleep”—he illustrates with tiny fingers—“Daddy can tell two stories. Right, Daddy?” He looks to me for approval as we reach the front door.
I look at Nina. She nods, unable to deny a request made with such dedication.
“Of course, buddy. As many as you want,” I promise.
“Seriously, Daddy?”
“You’re going to regret this, Nero,” Nina says. I’m not sure if it’s a warning or a threat. Either way, I grin.
“I doubt it.”
And I follow him inside when Rosa opens the door and pulls him into a hug.
“Daddy’s going to tell me lots of stories, Grandma, until it’s late. I didn’t say it—Mom did. Didn’t you, Mom?”
“I want to see if you’ll be as excited about bath time as you are about stories, Mr. Kael,” Nina says sternly as she takes off her knee-high boots and hangs up her coat. Kael deflates instantly.
“Is today bath day, Mom?” He looks at me, clearly asking for backup.
“Every day is bath day, Kael.” His shoulders slump at that, eyes dropping to the floor.
The disappointment in his voice barely matches the boy who was squealing with joy half an hour ago over two Legos found in the popcorn.
“Can we skip the bath just today?” he asks.
I feel bad—and amused. My son is a little dirt goblin. I file that away alongside other facts I’m collecting about him, right next to how he always raises his fingers when he says the number three.
“Up you go. Bath, pajamas, bed. Then the stories,” Nina says.
“Is it a body bath or a hair bath?”
“Both, Kael.”
“All right.” He exhales, inhales, summoning courage, and runs upstairs with intense focus. I follow.
Kael opens three drawers in his room in a row. From the first, pajamas. From the second, underwear and socks. From the third, a towel. He stacks everything on one shoulder.
“Mom!” he shouts, calling Nina, who’s already in the bathroom turning on the water. “Can it be this one?” He lifts the towel as if she could see it.
“Yes,” she answers from inside. “Bring the small box.”
He finds, without help, a small blue box on the dresser labeledkids’ nail kit.
Kael runs to the bathroom, and I lean against the doorframe, just watching their quiet, coordinated routine. Nina lifts him onto the washing machine and helps him undress. He hands her the two Legos he was still holding, and she sets them on the windowsill.
Kael carefully steps onto the small stool into the tub. They don’t speak—just share serene smiles of people who’ve done this a thousand times and don’t need words.
