“Really.”
“And you’re not lying?”
I put a hand over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
That gets the tiniest almost-smile out of him. Progress.
I kiss his forehead. “You have to trust me, okay?”
He thinks about that with all the solemn gravity available to a first grader.
Then he nods.
“I trust you.”
My throat tightens.
“Good.”
“And I love you.”
That one hits me right in the ribs, as usual.
“I love you too,” I say. “More than toast. More than coffee. More than finally getting to pee alone.”
He pulls back just enough to look offended. “That’s gross.”
“It’s the highest form of love a parent can offer.”
He gives a watery laugh, and the crisis passes, or at least settles into something manageable. Which is the best you can hope for with childhood grief. It doesn’t disappear. It just gets distracted by waffles and cartoons for a while.
By the time we are out the door, he has recovered enough to chatter about a class project involving dinosaurs and glue sticks. Children are incredible like that. They can break your heart at breakfast and be completely fine by the time they put on their shoes.
I, meanwhile, am absolutely not fine, but that is motherhood in a nutshell.
At school,the morning gets worse.
Of course it does.
I’m signing Noah in when the woman at the front desk gives me that look. The one adults use when they are about to say something unpleasant in a careful voice and hope politeness will somehow soften the blow.
“Ms. Hartwell,” she says, lowering her tone, “your last monthly payment bounced.”
For a second I just stare at her.
Of course it did.
Of course.
Because why would my life let me have one breakfast-induced emotional breakdown without throwing in a financial threat for seasoning?
“I’m sorry?” I say, even though I heard her perfectly.
“The payment didn’t go through.”
