Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Want to know what else would be fun?” He closes the fridge and turns to me. “Having food in the house. Think we could find a grocery store soon?”
Leaning against the counter, I study my son. He’s me at eleven, right down to the athletic build, crooked grin, and being too smart for his own good. Some days, the resemblance knocks the wind out of me. Other days, I look at him like he’s a puzzle that I’m trying to put together.
Both are probably true.
“Your mom will be happy to hear that you’re sick of pizza,” I say, tossing my shirt into the laundry closet.
“Oh, yeah. Mom called while I was pretending to be thirsty and asked for you to call her when you have time.”
I noticed a missed call from Deidre when we left the farmers’ market. “I’ll call her this afternoon.”
“Great.” He gazes out the window. “Hey, so, do you think it’d be okay if I walked down to the park?”
“Sure. Let me put on a shirt and—”
“Dad.” He holds up a hand. “As a reminder, I’m eleven. I can walk to the park at the end of the street by myself. I do it all the time back at home, and that city is about a million times bigger than here.”
Oh. Right.
I struggle with a lot of decisions when it comes to Gus. I don’t know if it’s okay for him to walk to the park alone, or what his bedtime should look like, or how firm I need to be about picking his clothes up off the floor. Sure, I can ask Deidre because she has all the answers—and I do ask for her input from time to time—but that feels like such a bullshit thing to do. She shouldn’t have to teach me how to be a dad. God knows that I wasn’t there to help her learn how to be a mom.
When I think about this too long, anxiety begins to blossom in my stomach because these are the easy things. This isn’t the real, day-to-day parenting stuff. I’m not dealing with teachers and doctors and coaches. I’m not making medical decisions or making sure he’s not hanging out with the wrong crowd. But next year, when I retire, those types of things will be my reality, too.
I hate that I’m just learning how to do this. And every time that I think about it, the gravity of what I’ve lost hits me like a ton of bricks.
I lost a decade of my son’s life, and I can never get that back.
“We have all summer together,” Gus says, oblivious to my thoughts. “And it might be good for you to get out on your own a little and make new friends, too. Find some opportunities to sharpen your game.”
That gets a chuckle out of me.
“So I can go?” he asks.
I pause, trying to weigh the benefits and potential risks. “Do you have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I say, blowing out a breath. I don’t want him walking there alone, but I also know that’s more of a selfish thing than an actual safety thing. And I can’t let my issues affect my kid. “Go ahead. But if I call, I need you to answer or call me right back. And if it starts to get dark, come home.”
He heads for the door, sighing in eleven-year-old dramatics. “You’re worse than Mom.”
“She’s had eleven years with you and kept you alive. I’m only in year two. I have a lot to prove.”
His laughter lifts the corners of my lips. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, kid.”
I almost get the words out before he slams the door like he’s afraid that I’ll chase him.
The house is quiet, almost too quiet, as soon as Gus is gone. I mosey around, picking up a pair of his socks off the living room floor and pulling an empty water bottle from behind a couch cushion. Deidre doesn’t let him get away with this bullshit at her house, and I promised her that I wouldn’t let him turn feral this summer. Unlike last year when I was completely out of my depth.
My phone rings, breaking through my thoughts, and I swipe it off the counter. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Deidre says, her tone warm but restrained. “How are things going?”
“I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh no. Why?”
I grin. “Because I was just wondering if I promised you that I wouldn’t let our son become a savage while I had him, or if I told you that I’d do my best.”
She groans, making me laugh.
“Just yanked a water bottle from behind a cushion,” I say. “But he might not ever want to see another frozen pizza again, so you’re welcome for that.”
“I don’t know how to respond, so I won’t try.” She chuckles. “He seemed happy when I talked to him this afternoon. You were at a farmers’ market or something.”