“Mom?” Blythe again. “Is necessary like necessary necessary or necessary necessary?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“The spelling.” She holds up her paper. “I did it twice because I wasn’t sure.”
“First one’s right, sweetie.” The carrots are uneven, but they’ll cook. “Tyson, how’s the math?”
He grunts, which could mean anything from ‘almost done’ to ‘considering running away to join the circus.’
Don’t make this difficult Golda.
“Can we have ice cream after dinner?” Blythe asks. “Since we can’t do the sleepover?”
“Yeah, mom,” Tyson joins in, something softening in his face. “We still have that mint chip you hide behind the frozen peas.”
I should say no. Should stick to routines, healthy choices, all the things good parents do.
“Only if homework’s done,” I say instead, and their matching grins make my chest ache.
Later, after they’re in bed, I stand in the dark kitchen. The dishes are done, everything prepped for tomorrow, another day successfully navigated. My phone sits silent on the counter, Evan’s last message still unanswered.
I finally pick up my phone to respond.
We’ll make it work. But the kids need stability. They need to know they can count on you.
They can count on me to provide for them. To keep them safe.
What he doesn’t understand – what he’s never understood – is that safety isn’t just about locks on doors and money in accounts.
I trace the tally marks through my sleeve, a habit for when I feel cornered.
My coffee’s gonecold by the time we make it to the rink, but I drink it anyway. The parking lot feels like stepping into another world—one where I don’t belong. SUVs with hockey stickers, families unloading equipment bags that cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Tyson asks, clutching his borrowed skates. The rental fee alone made me wince, but buying skates for kids who might hate skating seemed even more financially irresponsible.
“This is it,” I say, checking the address on my phone for the third time. “Learn to Skate, Saturdays at 10 AM.”
Blythe bounces on her toes. “I can’t wait! Do you think I’ll be able to spin like in the Olympics?”
“Let’s start with not falling down,” I suggest, gathering our things. The decision to sign them up still feels impulsive, dangerous. Money we can’t afford for an activity Evan will hate. But watching Tyson fold into himself after the school incident, hearing him ask if Dad left because he wasn’t good at sports...
“Mom, what if I’m terrible?” Tyson’s voice is small as we approach the entrance.
“Then you’ll be terrible together with all the other kids who are just learning,” I tell him. “That’s the point.”
Inside, the rink buzzes with Saturday morning energy. Families cluster around benches, wrestling kids into gear. The ice looks impossibly large and slippery, intimidating even from behind the glass.
“Find a bench anywhere,” a volunteer calls out. “Coach will be with you in a few minutes!”
I claim a spot and help Tyson with his skates, trying to remember the YouTube video I watched about proper lacing. Blythe wiggles into hers with the confidence of someone who’s never met a physical challenge she couldn’t conquer through pure enthusiasm.
“Too tight,” Tyson mutters.
“Has to be snug,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure. “Otherwise you’ll wobble.”
Around us, other parents chat easily about previous seasons, their kids’ progress, upcoming competitions. The Rink Moms—I can spot them already—with their designer athletic wear and easy familiarity with this world. They belong here in a way I clearly don’t.
“Look!” Blythe points toward the ice where someone’s setting up cones. “That must be our coach!”
