“It’s too cold.”
“It’s lukewarm,” I tell him gently. “Perfect if you don’t want tomorrow to be worse than it already will be.”
“I’m not hungover,” he mutters.
“Of course you’re not,” I say, failing to keep the smile out of my voice.
I press the bottle of shampoo into his hand.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
Because I love you, I think. But all I say is, “You’ll feel better after the shower.”
He lets out a long breath.
“Can you manage on your own?”
He nods once. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
A short, helpless laugh slips out of me.
“You say that like you ever liked bath time when you were a kid.”
Bath time had almost always been a battle. Ethan was a gentle child, mostly, but like any kid, he had his stubborn streaks. And bath time was at the top of that list.
“I used to throw those fits,” he murmurs, distant and unfocused. “Just to stay awake... so it would be you getting me ready for bed.”
My throat tightens. I step back to give him some room, but I stay by the doorway just to make sure he doesn’t lose his balance.
When he was little, I used to be home more often—or at least, it felt that way. But there were nights when work kept me later than I promised. Some evenings, when I bathed him and he was already half-asleep, he’d rest his head on my shoulder while I washed his arms and back.
Moments I thought were small at the time but I now understand were everything.
When he turns off the water, I hand him a towel as he steps out of the shower. He isn’t swaying as much now.
I go to the closet and pull out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie—the brand I know he prefers—and set them on the counter beside him.
“There are other things in the closet if you’d rather wear something else,” I say. “I’m going to make you some coffee. I can bring it to you, or you can meet me in the kitchen.”
He just gives me a small nod.
I grab my shoes before leaving the bathroom, pulling them back on as I head toward the kitchen.
I’m pouring coffee into two mugs when I feel him in the doorway. When I turn, Ethan is standing on the other side of the island. I slide a mug toward him and he takes a sip before sitting down. I mirror him, grabbing a stool on the opposite side with my cup in hand.
“If you want more sugar... or anything else,” I offer.
He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
I smile at him, and he almost immediately looks away, turning his gaze toward the floor-to-ceiling window to his left.
“Why...” he starts, and my stomach knots, bracing for what’s coming. “Why is that closet full of clothes in my size? The exact type of clothes I wear.”
I almost sigh in relief. Clearing my throat, I say, “It’s your room, son. Even knowing you didn’t want to come here... or stay the way Alicia does...” I swallow. “I still hoped maybe one day that would change. And I wanted everything to be ready for you when it did.”
I knew from Alicia that Ethan hadn’t wanted anything from his old room except his electronics when they moved out. So I asked the decorator to make his room here feel right forsomeone his age and as different from his old one as possible. Every device in there is a newer version of the ones I know he uses now.
I even bought him drawing supplies, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. The first time he said he wanted to be an architect, I remember forcing my expression to stay neutral. I tried to steer him toward something ‘practical’—finance, management, a future at Montgomery Clifford—but he saw my attempt for what it was. It was me trying to control his life, making choices that should’ve been his alone.
