Together, we filled the tortillas with our mixture of veggies and meat, and topped them with a creamy cheese sauce that she whipped up in the same skillet we’d used earlier. Every single bite of these burritos would be full of flavor.
How Elijah slept through our conversation and laughter, let alone the irresistible aromas, was beyond me.
“Gabriella, I’m going to check on Elijah. He’s usually up by now,” I said as I wiped my hands on a dish towel and left the kitchen.
I made my way down the hall, my footsteps echoing softly on the laminate floors. The door to Elijah’s room was slightly ajar, and I could see his outline in the dim morning light. He was sitting in the rocking chair, knees drawn up to his chest, wearing different pajamas from the ones he had gone to sleep in. His bedding was in a heap on the floor, and a towel covered part of his mattress.
“Baby, are you okay?” I asked, taking a cautious step into the room.
Elijah buried his face in his knees, his voice muffled as he spoke. “I peed in the bed, Grandma. I’m sorry.”
My heart ached for him; I could feel his embarrassment radiating off him in waves. I crossed the room and rested a hand on his shoulders. “No worries, EJ. Everyone has accidents sometimes.”
He looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes. “I still don’t like it when it happens.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“Please don’t tell Gabriella. I don’t want her to know.”
“Of course I won’t,” I assured him, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a shower? I’ll take care of the laundry.”
“Okay,” he whispered, sliding off the rocking chair and heading toward the bathroom.
As he closed the door behind him, I gathered up the soiled bedding and carried it to the laundry room, making sure not to catch Gabriella’s eye. My mind raced with worry for my grandson.
Both of my kids had been completely potty-trained by age three, and we never had a slip-up, except for the time Eric Jr. refused to step away from a video game because he didn’t want to lose. He won the game against Terri, but he lost control of his bladder in the celebration, and she never let her brother forget it.
Elijah, at ten years old, should be long past his bed-wetting days, in my estimation.
I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of the shower running behind the closed bathroom door. I slipped back into my bedroom and called my daughter.
“Hey, Momma,” she answered, her voice hurried. “What’s up?”
“Terri, I need to talk to you about something that happened with Elijah this morning.” I launched into an explanation of the situation. “Is this normal for him?”
“Ah.” Terri sighed. “He only gets that way when he’s feeling anxious. It’s not unusual, but it hasn’t happened in a while.”
“Could it be because he’s going to his grandpa’s house soon?” I wondered aloud, my mind racing through possible reasons for his distress.
“Maybe,” Terri replied, sounding distracted. “Look, I have to get to my next seminar session. We can talk about it later.”
“Wait,” I pressed, unwilling to let the conversation end just yet. “Is there any way Elijah could just go home and stay with his father instead? Maybe that would help with his anxiety.”
“Mom, I said I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back when I have more time.”
“All right,” I relented, the weight of worry settling heavily on my shoulders as we hung up.
As I stood in the dimly lit hallway, the scent of breakfast tortillas wafting from the kitchen, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I needed to find a solution for Elijah. My grandson deserved the best summer possible, and I was determined to do whatever it took to make that happen. But first, I needed to learn more about what was causing his anxiety and how I could help him through it.
I stood there, lost in thought, my fingers absently tracing the delicate wallpaper lining the hallway. The sound of running water ceased, and I knew Elijah would soon be stepping out of the shower, freshly washed and hopefully feeling a bit better about his morning ordeal.
“Focus, Joyce,” I whispered to myself, straightening my shoulders. “You’ll figure this out. You always do.”
I took a deep breath and returned to my room, steeling myself for the next conversation I needed to have. Calling my ex-husband, Eric, was never an easy task, but discussing Elijah’s well-being wasmore important than any lingering discomfort between us. I dialed Eric’s number and waited as the line rang.
“Hello?” Eric answered, cautiously curious.
“Hi, it’s Joyce,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I wanted to talk to you about Elijah.”
