“Mommy?”
I turn around.
Noah is standing in the hallway doorway rubbing his eyes. His hair—dark, almost black—sticks up in every direction from sleep.
“What are you doing up?” I ask gently.
He shuffles forward and hugs my leg.
“Gabby was talking all night.”
“Talking?”
“Into her phone.”
I smile slightly. “That sounds like Gabby.”
He looks up at me. “What’s a hookup?”
Lost for words, I blink repeatedly. “What?”
“She said it,” he explained.
Of course, she did. I take a slow breath. “You are too young to worry about that word,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because it’s grown-up stuff. Like work and taxes and everything boring.”
He seems satisfied with that answer. A small miracle. He usually interrogates me until I’m left with no choice but to initiate a tickle fight to distract him.
“Come on,” I say softly.
I scoop him into my arms and carry him back toward his room. Noah wraps his arms around my neck immediately. He has always been affectionate like that.
Six years old going on seven. The center of my entire world.
His room is small but cozy, filled with mismatched toys and books and drawings taped to the walls. I set him down in bed, pull the blanket over him, and kiss the little birthmark next to his ear. When he asked me why he had it, I told him it’s because I was craving chocolate every day while he was in my belly.
I couldn’t bear to say the truth. That he got it from his father.
“You need to sleep,” I tell him.
He yawns.
“Are you tired?”
“Very.”
“Okay.”
I sit beside the bed and start humming the lullaby I’ve sung to him since he was a baby. It’s an old Italian song my mother used to sing to me.
“C’era una volta una gatta…”
My voice is quiet in the dim room.
Noah’s breathing slows almost immediately.
