“Mom, can we eat this every day?” Mikaela asks, already scooping a heap of rice onto a fork.
Rhys laughs. It’s easy with none of the clipped politeness we’ve been living on.
“Kid,” he says, grinning, “if I ate this every day, I’d have to book my own cardiac consult.”
“Dr. Prescott, heal thyself,” I tease. For a second, his eyes light up the way they used to.
Mikaela’s hair is piled in a messy ponytail, a streak of soy sauce on her cheek. She dips a tempura broccoli into the sauce, coating her fingers.
“You’ve got sauce all over your face.” Finn reaches across to wipe it off.
“I can do it,” she insists, grabbing the napkin from him.
“You sure about that?” He grins and steals a carrot tempura from her plate.
“Carrot’s my favorite!” she complains, smacking his shoulder.
Without a word, Rhys slides the two carrot tempuras from his plate onto hers.
“See?” Mikaela declares triumphantly. “You took one, but now I have two.”
Finn rolls his eyes. “Dad, she played you.”
“She sure did.” Rhys leans back in his chair, relaxed for once, watching us with contentment.
The evening continues to be pleasant. It’s almost like the old times, before we started walking around each other like landmines.
Finn launches into a blow-by-blow of his last soccer game, complete with sound effects and dramatic reenactments of “the worst ref call in history.”
“I’m never quitting soccer,” he declares. “I’m going pro. Just watch.”
“Well, I’m never quitting gymnastics,” Mikaela chimes in. “I’m going to do cartwheels forever, even when I’m old. Like forty.”
“Wow, thanks,” I remark dryly.
She grins, unbothered. “You know what I mean, Mom.”
When dinner’s done, Rhys starts clearing the table and waves off Finn’s offer to help.
“You sure you know how to do that?” Finn asks, one eyebrow raised.
For a second, I hold my breath, half-expecting Rhys to snap back. Finn’s tone is light, but the jab lands—the quiet reminder that his father isn’t usually the one doing this.
“Doctor at work, dishwasher at home,” Rhys jokes. “It’s called range.”
“Wow,” Finn deadpans. “Dad’s funny now.”
“I’ve always been funny.” Rhys throws a balled-up napkin at him, and it bounces off Finn’s shoulder. “Ask your mother.”
I hold my hands up, palms out, relieved that no one has blown up. “I plead the fifth.”
Rhys keeps watching me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. There’s a soft, uncertain look on his face—one I know intimately. It’s the same expression he used to have during those thirty-hour med school shifts when I’d show up with sandwiches and bad coffee. Like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
A dinner can’t solve everything. I know that. And I know I need to talk to him tonight—honestly, clearly, without hiding behind exhaustion or fear. The truth is that I’m hopeful, truly so, that we’re going to be alright. Somehow, we’ll maneuver through this.
After the kids are in bed, I make coffee, debating maybe if I should add whiskey to it for the talk we’re going to have, where I have to make myself vulnerable.
When did that become an issue? When did I start to think I need to be strong with my husband?
