“He got a notification from some model train forum. I saw it on his screen when he came back to the blanket. Not work. Trains.”
She says it without anger. Withoutdisappointment. Just flat, factual reporting from a sixteen-year-old who has stopped being surprised.
“Jen.”
“I’m fine, Mom. It’s not new.” She goes to her room. The door closes. The bass starts.
I stand in the galley. My dead coffee maker is on the counter. Harold’s tomato is on the windowsill. My children are in their rooms processing another round of almost-enough.
Matt texts at five.
Matt:Sorry about cutting today short. Work emergency. I’ll make it up to them next visit.
I stare at the text. Next visit. There’s always a next visit. A next time. A next chance. Matt lives in a perpetual state ofnextwhile his children grow up in the reality ofnow.
I don’t respond.
I putAidan to bed at eight.
Stomper is out of the ziplock bag and back in his spot under Aidan’s arm. The list is on the nightstand, unfolded. I can see the pencil marks from across the room. He crossed offthe items they completed: fishing, ice cream, boardwalk bikes. More than half the list is uncrossed.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, bud.”
“Is Mr. Paul mad at us?”
The question hits me right in the sternum.
“He’s not mad at anyone. Why would you think that?”
“He hasn’t come over. He didn’t make pancakes on Saturday. He wasn’t at the dock when we left this morning.”
“He’s got a lot on his plate, baby. The yacht wedding is coming up.”
“He had a lot on his plate before, too. He still used to come over.” He pulls Stomper closer. “Did I do something to make him stop?”
“Aidan. No. Absolutely not.”
“Then why did everything change?”
I sit on the edge of his bed. Smooth his hair back. This kid. This brave, hopeful, list-making kid who invited a stranger to be number twelve and meant it with his whole heart.
“Sometimes grownups need time to figure things out,” I say. “It’s not about you. It’s never about you.”
“That’s what you said about Dad.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
“Get some sleep, bud. Things will look different in the morning.”
“You always say that too.”
He rolls over. Tucks Stomper under his chin. Closes his eyes.
I pull the door shut and lean against the hallway wall, pressing my palms flat against the wood, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
Then why did everything change?
