“Ugh,” Wyatt moans. “Aunt Maggie.” He wipes the patch of skin where I kissed. Then he looks at Lucca and rolls his eyes. “Girls.”
I snicker, hoping my cheeks are a semi-normal color once more.
“We are proud of both our girls and our Wyatt,” Mom says. “They’ve all come a long way. God’s been good to us.”
I swallow, a knot in my throat. “He has,” I say. “Besides, who cares about what Lindy and I have done. Wyatt here is reading at asecond-gradelevel.”
“Impressive,” Lucca says, holding out a fist to Wyatt.
Wyatt rises in his seat and thrusts his knuckles into Lucca’s. “Do you like trains? I can tell you what I learned today while we eat pie.”
Lucca rests a hand on his protruding eight pack—I know it’s an eight pack from the day he stripped off his shirt at Wyatt’s birthday party. That image will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life. “Can you give mefifteen minutes?” He pats his stomach once more to show how full of meatloaf he is.
“We can wait. You can look at my room and see my soccer trophy, and maybe we could play Mario Kart.”
“School night,” I say, just as Lindy says, “Why not?”
For the next sixty minutes, I watch my nephew with his soccer hero–who isn’t me. Wyatt gives Lucca a tour of our home. He even insists Lucca seemyroom and trophies—thanks, buddy. They do play Mario Kart, and they stuff themselves with Wyatt’s pudding, whipped cream, and wafer pie, which Lucca seems to love. Either that, or he’s sucking up to a six year old.
Mom and Dad have turned in for the night, and it’s just the four of us left at this kitchen table.
And then, possibly for the first time in Wyatt’s young life, my sister says, “Wyatt, time for a bath and bed. Tell your friend goodnight.”
And Wyatt, miraculously, does not argue. What is happening here? This feels so unfair on so many levels.
He slips from his kitchen chair to stand next to Lucca. Wyatt wraps one arm around his neck. “Bye. Will you come back?” He cups his hand next to Lucca’s ear and whispers too loudly for it to be a secret. “Mom says if I go to bed nicely, you’ll come back.”
“Of course. How can I live without your banana pie?” He taps Wyatt’s nose with one finger. “You’ve got me hooked.”
Wyatt giggles and then wraps his other arm around Lucca, hugging him tight.
I nibble on my bottom lip, watching the scene, watching as Lucca grins, his eyes closed, embracing my nephew back.
“Come over again real soon,” Wyatt whispers. “We like it when you’re here.”
Lucca pats his back and gives him an affirmativenod.
Heaven help me.
Whether or not it’s wise for Lucca and me to be friends, it’s as if this conversation has solidified it. We are officially friends. Wyatt has decided.
He steps back, looking at Lucca like I’ve never really seen him look at anyone. I’d love to know what’s going on in his head. And then he’s off. Bath and bed time, with Lindy following after him.
And while everything inside of me knows it would be more than wise to show this man to the door, to ask him to leave, I find myself saying, “You once told me you understood my situation. What did you mean?”
Because all at once, I want to know. Dad commented on his family being proud, and while Lucca agreed, I couldn’t help but notice how he danced around the topic and gave zero details.
“I was raised by my grandmother. My father had died, and my mother was young. She decided she couldn’t raise a child on her own. So, Vovó raised me. Much like you are raising Wyatt.”
I shake my head, my chest tightening. “I’m not raising Wyatt.” Lindy is bathing him as we speak.
“Not alone,” he says, “but you are.”
My eyes prick with unshed tears, with the acknowledgment this man is quietly giving me. Because, while not his mother, we’re family, and Iamhelping raise him. He’s my boy. And I can’t imagine life without him.
“You gave up a lot?—”
“Wyatt’s worth it.”
