Bryce looked up. The last time I’d seen his eyes, they’d been shot through with pain and the kind of terror no kid should know. Today, they were bright.
"Morning, Mom," he said. "No headache. Not even a little one."
The spoon clattered in the bowl, and I nearly dropped the coffee pot. I set it down, then went straight to him, fingers to his forehead. No fever, not even a hint of the cold sweats that had haunted him since the first time his magic spiked. The color was back in his cheeks, and there wasn’t a tremor anywhere on him. He looked solid.
He caught my wrist. "You don’t have to check every time, you know."
I let my hand drop, fighting back tears. "Sorry, habit."
He grinned. "You’re such a mom."
It was a small moment, but it knocked the air out of my lungs. I sat down across from him and poured myself coffee, heavy on the creamer. The kitchen was a disaster, crumbs on the counter, a sink full of unwashed cups, but the mess felt earned. We’d survived another round.
I watched Bryce demolish his breakfast, all gangly elbows and determination. The wolf plush had lost a button eye, but he stroked its head between bites, a gesture that was half comfort, half habit. Every so often, his fingers twitched, and a spark flickered between them, barely visible. I watched for signs of distress, but he smiled wider each time it happened.
He pushed his bowl away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So what do we do today?"
I’d spent years dreading this question, always afraid that the answer wouldn’t be enough, that I was failing him by letting life get too small, too weird, too off-grid. But today, for once, I had a plan.
"Well," I said, drawing out the suspense, "today is your first official day of homeschooling. That means you and I get to set up your workstation, figure out the assignments, and see if we can beat last year’s record for most consecutive days in pajamas."
His whole body straightened. "I can wear pajamas all day?"
"As long as you brush your teeth," I said. "And maybe put on real pants when we go out. Deal?"
He nodded, then got up and started gathering his books, the wolf plush tucked under his arm like a co-conspirator. There was a new energy in him, an absence of dread that made him seem taller, even though he still had to hop to reach the top shelf for his laptop. He cleared a patch of kitchen table, scattering crumbs and cereal boxes, and set up his new "office" with the solemnity of a NASA launch pad.
I sipped my coffee and watched him arrange his notebooks in a neat row, each one labeled in marker with his name and the subject. Math, science, English, "weird history." The last was my doing. I’d filled the curriculum with cryptids and conspiracy theories, hoping to keep his mind off the things that could actually hurt him.
He fired up the laptop and logged into the homeschool portal. A cartoon wolf mascot howled from the screen, and Bryce giggled.
"Look," he said, pointing at the screen. "It says, ‘Welcome, Bryce Gallagher. Prepare for adventure.’"
I smiled, feeling the last of the fear drain from me. "Are you ready for adventure?"
He nodded, then frowned. "Will Dad be here for lunch?"
I hesitated, the word "Dad" still new, but nodded. "He said he’d bring a milkshake."
"Awesome," Bryce crowed.
I watched him, pride and worry wrestling in my chest. The magic still flared when he got excited, and every so often, a spark would leap from his pencil to the table. But it was contained now. No pain, no headaches, no fear.
A buzz from my phone startled me. Zaden, checking in.
How’s B doing?
I glanced at Bryce, who had started his reading assignment and was already underlining every other word with a bright yellow highlighter.
"Hey, Bryce?" I called.
He looked up, eyes clear.
"Any headache?"
He shook his head. "Not even a tiny one."
I texted back.
