"Hey, buddy," I whisper, my voice soft, careful, trying not to flinch at the hesitation that shouldn't exist between us.
"Hi, Dad," Noah mutters, his voice guarded.
It cuts me when he keeps a wide berth as he runs right into his mother's arms. She holds him tight, burying her face in hishair and breathes deep like she's steadying herself.
Movement out of the corner of my eye makes me turn. Liam stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed, and looking right at me.
It strikes me how grown he looks right now and how much he looks like me. Everyone always joked about my height, and with how tall Wendy is, our sons never stood a chance but to be little giants.
He glares at me with a look so fierce it makes my hands shake at my sides. His expression is full of anger, of resentment, of a bitterness that doesn't belong on a thirteen-year-old's face.
Christ. When's the last time I even really looked at my sons? How have they sprouted up in just a year?
How much have I truly missed?
"Hey, Liam," I whisper.
He doesn't answer, he just exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes, his dismissal sharp and intentional.
"Hi, Mama," Liam says pointedly, shooting me a cold look before stomping over to her and Noah. She opens her arms, but instead of stepping into her embrace, he wraps his arms around both her and Noah.
That makes me feel about an inch tall, because his stance is unmistakably protective.
He's protecting his mom and brother from me.
My oldest son is now the man of the house in my absence.
I feel sick.
I hear two more sets of footsteps and see my parents in the doorway. The look on their faces is something I haven't seen since I was a kid, when Silas and I took their car for a joyride around the block.
The same feeling wells up inside of me at their looks of disappointment—shame.
My dad also looks fucking stone-cold pissed at me, and it makes a shiver run down my spine.
"How was the movie?" Wendy asks the boys, smiling as sheglances back and forth between them.
Noah's face is all sweet innocence, while Liam still simmers with quiet anger, periodically glancing back at me with a look that seems to ask:Why are you still here?
"It was awesome! We watched Back to the Future!" Noah chirps, bouncing up and down. "Pop said he took Mom-Mom to see it in theaters back in the eighties. Mama, they have to be like... a hundred years old!"
He loudly whispers the last part, glancing back at my parents in wide-eyed wonder.
Their angry faces directed at me melt instantly when they look at their youngest grandbaby. My mom jokingly squawks, affronted, while my dad barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
"I'll have you know, young man," my mom says, hands on her hips, mock-indignant. "I am a very young and spry sixty-three, thank you very much."
"'Heavy,'" Noah says solemnly, quoting Marty McFly.
Everyone laughs, wrapped in a warm family blanket of camaraderie, and I can feel my own lips twitch even as the longing punches me square in the gut.
This—this—is what I've missed out on for the past year by choosing to pull myself away.
Movie nights, inside jokes, cuddles, and laughter.
I've missed a whole year of my sons growing up, turning into little people with big personalities and different interests. Leaving Wendy to raise them alone.
I've missed a whole year of cherishing my wife during our marriage and of reveling in the time I've been given with her.
