Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
I tried asking Liam about basketball, and only got short answers of yes, no, and fine.
Every branch I tried to extend to talk about something abruptly broke off when I realized I had only ever really known my sons at a surface level.
Liam and basketball, Noah and art.
In the past, I was able to connect with them by buying them the things they needed for their activities—or rather, making the money so Wendy could take them to the store to buy them the things they needed.
Then I would come home from work, Wendy would call the boys down, and they would run to me, show me what they got, and say, "Thank you, Daddy."
I never understood why the thank you felt undeserved, but I just hugged my boys close and said, "You're welcome."
I always thought Wendy was the most incredible mother, able to follow whatever artist Noah was interested in at the time, or whatever basketball player Liam idolized.
I could never keep track of it when they chatted their little heads off at the dinner table, but my wife had it covered.
She had everything covered while I made the money.
That was our teamwork in my mind.
Now, I realize that I have never had to look after them by myself. Ever. Wendy was always there, or my parents were watching them, or a babysitter.
It's never been just us alone together.
After dinner, the boys cleaned up and left without a word up to their rooms.
I think of after dinner at home, during the good times, when we would all crowd around the TV, the boys sprawled across the floor or the couch, Wendy tucked under my arm as we watched a movie.
Sometimes I'd feel her head drop down on my shoulder as she fell asleep, and I would press kisses to her hair, feeling so full of love I could burst.
I never even considered why Wendy was falling asleep in the middle of the movie. I thought she was just tired from the day like I was, but... it was exhaustion.
She was usually the last one in bed and the first one up in the mornings. She would get breakfast together while making sure our lunches were packed. She would get the boys up and moving, and get me up and moving.
I'd come downstairs, and she'd hand me my breakfast burrito, my lunch bag, and a thermos of coffee before wrangling the kids and their bags, and herding them into her car.
I'd kiss the boys, kiss her, tell her I love them, and head on my way to work while Wendy did school drop-off.
I never really thought anything of it because that was our routine, but being forced to step back, I feel I've been sincerely missing something big in my parenting, leaving Wendy to carry the brunt of it all.
It is teamwork, but it's unbalanced.
And I have to fix that too.
◆◆◆
Saturday morning comes with yet another realization—I haven't cooked anything in years.
Besides warming up leftovers in the microwave, all my meals were provided for me by Wendy... or the local fast-food joint.
Wendy was an excellent cook and could pretty much whip up anything the boys and I were craving. Weekend breakfasts were always something to look forward to.
Now I try—and fail—to put together breakfast for my sons.
Noah likes waffles, so I figured that would be easy enough. There are no frozen waffles in the freezer, but my mom does have the mix—just add water.
Simple, right?
"Yeah, real fucking simple," I grit my teeth as I wave a dish towel in front of the smoke alarm.
I must have turned the waffle iron on too high when I poured the batter on, and then I became distracted trying to Google whether I messed up by using salted butter instead of unsalted, because I really don't know the fucking difference and why someone would use one over the other.
Then I smelled something burning, and the alarm went off abruptly as the kitchen filled with a thick blanket of smoke.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse over and over, rushing to open the door that leads to the backyard, the windows, and trying to clear out the smoke before it wakes up the boys.
It's only six, and I wanted them to be able to sleep in a bit. I'd been up since four, mercifully sleeping a couple of hours without a nightmare, but I’ve had a lot on my mind.
"What's going on?" I hear from the doorway just as the alarm finally shuts up. Liam and Noah stand there in their pajamas, looking half-asleep and confused.
"Oh, hey," I say, a little breathless from my running around that turned out to be unnecessary because I clearly woke them up anyway. "I was trying to make breakfast."
I gesture to the unplugged waffle iron, holding a waffle burnt to a crisp.
Liam and Noah look at it, and then back at me, unimpressed.
"I can do it," Liam yawns, moving to the waffle iron to pick it up and carefully dump out the burnt mess. When he sees my questioning look, Liam shrugs and mutters. "Mama showed us how."
"I'll wash the blueberries!" Noah goes to the fridge, opens it, grabs the blueberries from the shelf, and brings them over to the sink, using the step stool my mom keeps in here.
"Right," I say, feeling suddenly useless in the middle of my kitchen as my sons work to clean up my mess and make breakfast.
Needing something to do, I wash out the messy bowls as Liam grabs a new one and carefully measures the water to add to the mix. I then watch as Liam carefully adds butter to the iron on low heat, and uses a measuring cup to carefully add the batter. It doesn't sizzle and smoke as it did for me.
I want to step in, take over making breakfast for my sons because I'm the parent, and that's the way it's supposed to be, but I don't.
I just watch them work and do what I can, loading the dishwasher and cleaning up the counters.
"Your Mama showed you this?" I ask Liam.
Liam nods, focused on the iron.
Noah chirps up from the sink, "Mama's been teaching us how to cook more. She said she wants us to be self-suppicient."
Liam snorts and corrects, "Self-sufficient."
"That's what I said," Noah huffs.
I watch my self-sufficient children prepare breakfast that their father couldn't, and feel I've been missing out on so much more than I realized.
Though my heart does warm when we sit down at the table, and Liam silently hands me a plate of waffles, topped with blueberries and syrup.
My hands shake slightly when I reach out to take it from him, and he raises his eyes to mine. His jaw is locked tight, his mouth in a firm line, but in his eyes—my eyes—there's some softness there.
"Thank you, son," I tell him, my voice low and sincere. My words are filled with more meaning than I think he realizes.
He doesn't say anything, and his jaw still remains tight, but he still says, "You're welcome, Dad," and that's enough for me, for now.
We sit and eat in silence, slightly less awkward than last night's conversation.
The waffles are fluffy, the blueberries and syrup are sweet, and my sons don't feel so much like strangers.
A small spark of hope ignites in my chest.
◆◆◆
"Hey, buddy. How was it?"
I open the door for Noah, and he takes his bookbag off, tossing it in the back before climbing inside.
"It was okay," Noah shrugs as he buckles himself in his seat.
I make sure he's buckled right before circling the truck and climbing into the driver's side. Liam had declined to come with us, retreating to his room after we cleaned up breakfast.
Noah sits quietly in the backseat on the way home, looking out the window. When he speaks after a few minutes, it honestly startles me.
"I read your letter."
My heart stops.
"You did?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Noah nods, but doesn't say anything else. I'm not going to have this conversation while I'm driving, so I put my turn signal on and pull into the first parking lot I see.
When I'm parked, I turn around to face Noah, who looks confused.
"Did you want to talk about it?"
Noah's silent for a couple of long moments, his eyes dropping to his lap.
"Why did you stop talking to me?"
The question is so heartbreaking, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from falling apart. How can I explain this to my eight-year-old in a way that will make sense to him, because I honestly—shamefully—don't know if he will understand mental illness.
I kept it vague in the letter, focusing on apologizing to Noah, to telling him how much I love him, how I went away because I'm sick and needed to get better.
I was a complete mess of tears while writing each of those letters. I just wanted my sons to know how much I love them. I knew simple words on paper wouldn't be enough to earn back their trust.
Trust is built through honesty, and I'll never lie to my family ever again.
"I told you that I was sick, right?" I ask, and Noah nods.
"Mama said it’s your mind.”
"That's right. My mind is sick, and it was... it wasn't letting me ask for help to get better..."
Noah frowns, and I don't think I'm explaining this correctly, until an idea hits me.
I give him a small smile. "You know when you have strep throat, and Mama tries to get you to take your medicine?"
His face screws up immediately, just as it does when Wendy has the dropper full of that bubblegum-flavored antibiotic, trying to get Noah's mouth to open. "It tastes nasty."
"I know," I laugh, nodding in agreement. It did taste nasty. After Noah’s fight to not take it, I had gotten curious and tasted it. I still remember Wendy’s laughter at my disgusted face.
"But, then Mama negotiates with you, and after all that huffing and puffing, you do take it, and then what happens?"
"I feel better," Noah admits, rather reluctantly.
"You do all that fighting and resisting because of that brief, nasty taste, but it ends up making you feel better," I smile at him. "That's how it was for Daddy."
"Really?" He asks, scrunching his face up. "So... you take your medicine?"
"Yes. I talk to people about my illness, and I take medicine."
"Do you feel better, Daddy?"
My throat constricts painfully at his question.
Because yes, I do. I'm not there, I'm not cured, I'm not perfect, but I'm getting better, and I have to keep reminding myself that it's something to be proud of.
But as my son looks at me with concern and love in his brown eyes, I feel proud.
"I do," I smile with a nod, my eyes welling up. "I'm feeling better. I'm getting better."
"I'm happy you're feeling better."
God, you are your Mama's child.
But you're also mine, too.
"Me too, buddy."
"I missed you," Noah says, a small smile on his face. "Mama missed you too... so does Liam."
I blink in surprise. "He told you that?"
"No, but I know," he shrugs, and I believe him.
Liam and Noah have always been close, with Liam watching over his little brother. I still remember how thrilled he was when we learned Noah was a boy, begging to name him after a dinosaur and his favorite cartoon.
It always comforted me, seeing my sons share the bond I had with Silas, who was my protector… until I became his.
The memory curdles in my stomach.
"Do you want to see my comic book?" Noah asks me, pulling me out of my depressing thoughts.
I smile, "I would love to."
Noah pulls his sketchbook out of his bag, takes a colorful sheet of paper from it, and hands it over to me. My chest warms when I see it—Super-Mom.
It's an explosion of color, every single hue vibrant and vivid. Wendy's drawn as a superhero, in full regalia, hovering over the ground. Her red hair is blowing in the wind, a vibrant ginger flame against a blue sky, and Noah's captured the smile that makes me melt perfectly.
Noah and his brother are even featured in the background, looking up at their flying mother in awe.
"Ms. Piper said I should give it to Mama as a gift. Do you like it?"
"I love it, buddy. I think..." My voice cracks before I clear it. "I think it's perfect."
Noah smiles shyly and shrugs.
"Is this how you see your Mama?"
Noah nods.
My smile widens.
"This is how I see her, too."