7
I tied that bow tie in a parking garage with my hands shaking, because I am my mother's daughter and I was not about to walk my son into three hundred people with a crooked tie.
"Hold still."
"Is it straight."
"It will be when you hold still."
I got it even and sat back and looked at him in that booster seat, navy blazer, the light-up shoes I told him were too casual and put on his feet anyway because he asked me three times, the Spinosaurus tucked under his arm because I had given up trying to leave it at home a long time ago.
"You nervous?" he said.
"No."
"Your hands was shaking."
"I'm cold, baby."
He studied me the way he studied everything he wasn't sure he believed, and then he let it go, because he was five and he wanted his chocolate fountain more than he wanted the truth. We took the elevator up and he held my hand the whole way and told me he had been thinking about it since Tuesday, and I told myself one more time, going up in that elevator, that this was a bad idea.
I was right. I just didn't know how right.