4. Talia
Talia
“Mom, school's closed and it didn't even snow.”
“I know.”
Flynn studies this injustice with the seriousness only a six-year-old can summon before seven in the morning.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Nope.”
“Who decided that?”
“Probably adults.”
He frowns. “Sounds suspicious.”
“Most adult decisions are.”
Broken pipes at the elementary school were enough to shut everything down—just not enough, apparently, to warrant any kind of warning. No classes. No notice. Just a text at six-thirteen telling us the school was closed and wishing us luck with the fallout.
Since luck was not accepting appointments, I had improvised. Which had led to a negotiation at seven o'clock in the morning over the acceptable number of toy airplanes one six-year-old could reasonably transport to an office building.
"Six is too many."
"It's not too many."
"It is when you're making me carry them."
Flynn clutched his collection to his chest with all the solemn determination of a man protecting national secrets.
"They get lonely."
"They know each other."
"But what if they miss each other?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Sweetheart, they're airplanes."
"They have feelings."
Apparently, I had reached the stage of motherhood where I argued with inanimate objects before coffee.
"Three," I said. "You may bring three."
"Four."
"Three."
"Three and a helicopter."
"Flynn."
"Fine."
The pilot sweatshirt had been a separate battle. It was June, already pushing eighty degrees before eight in the morning, and the navy hoodie with tiny embroidered airplanes should have remained firmly in his closet.
Instead, my son had stared at me with the quiet stubbornness inherited from a man currently occupying far too much space in my thoughts.
"I have meetings too."
"You are six."
"I'm almost seven."
"In September."
"That's close."
According to him, the sweatshirt made him look professional. I had lost that argument.
Somewhere between packing lunches and negotiating the acceptable number of toy airplanes allowed in an office building, I'd also spent far too much time wondering whether bringing Flynn with me crossed some invisible line I wasn't aware of.
Not because he would cause trouble. Flynn was better behaved than most adults I encountered professionally.
But motherhood had a way of making you question things that probably didn’t deserve the energy.
Was it unprofessional? Would anyone care?
Would they see a capable executive handling an inconvenient morning, or a woman who hadn’t managed to separate work and family?
I hated that the questions still lived in my head.
Flynn had never been something to apologize for. But I'd spent six years building a life around contingencies and backup plans, learning to juggle school schedules and fevers and deadlines without dropping anything important. Most days, I thought I did a decent job.
Today, however, I was operating on two hours less sleep than usual and negotiating with a six-year-old who believed toy airplanes had emotional needs.
Under the circumstances, I decided perfection was probably asking too much.
Mrs. Smith, our usual sitter, had a doctor's appointment she couldn't move. My backup sitter was out of state, visiting her daughter. Rebecca had informed me that this morning's meeting with Crossridge's legal team absolutely could not wait, which left me with exactly one option.
Bring Flynn to work and pray nobody important objects. Thankfully, Crossridge had bigger problems than one six-year-old with crayons.
Flynn sits at one of the café tables near the windows, surrounded by construction paper, markers, and enough toy airplanes to establish his own airline.
His lunch box rests beside him, and the blue sweatshirt he'd insisted on wearing despite the June weather, is already hanging off the back of his chair.
My laptop is open in front of me. My coffee cools. Twenty-three unread emails stare back from my inbox.
Motherhood, I've learned, means worrying about things you've already checked three times.
Flynn holds up one of his toy airplanes. “This one goes far.”
“Oh?”
He nods.
“Really far.”
“And the red one?”
He squints at it.
“Too many windows.”
I blink. “That's your concern?”
“It needs less.”
“Apparently.”
The blue one receives a more favorable review.
“This one's good.”
“What makes it good?”
“It has snacks.”
“Ah.”
“People like snacks.”
“They do.”
“Not broccoli.”
“Broccoli isn't a snack.”
“It shouldn't be.”
I laugh softly.
“Mom?”
“Hm?”
“When I'm a pilot, you can come on my plane.”
“I thought pilots flew the plane.”
“They do.”
“So you'll be busy.”
“You can still come.”
“Oh?”
“You sit up front.”
“How fancy.”
“And you get coffee.”
“Thank goodness.”
“And Grandma can come.”
“Very thoughtful.”
He thinks for a second.
“And Mrs. Smith.”
“What about your friends?”
He shrugs.
“If they're nice.”
“An excellent policy.”
“I know.”
He grins and goes back to arranging his airplanes. Apparently, I have spent six years raising a tiny airline executive.
“Mom?”
“Hm?”
“Do pilots eat broccoli?”
I look up from my phone.
“Probably.”
His expression falls.
“That seems unfair.”
“I imagine they agree.”
“Maybe that's why they wear sunglasses.”
I blink.
“What?”
“So nobody can see them being sad.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Across the table, Flynn grins triumphantly before returning to his coloring book.
One sock has already surrendered and pooled around his ankle, and the cowlick I'd fought with for five minutes this morning has staged a successful rebellion.
Freckles dust his nose from time spent outside, and every now and then, his tongue peeks out in concentration while he colors the wings of his latest airplane bright blue.
I know every inch of him.
The tiny scar beneath his chin from a scooter accident. The way he bounces his knee when he's excited. The fact that he hates mashed potatoes but will willingly eat broccoli if enough cheese is involved. The crooked grin that convinces strangers to smile back before they realize they're doing it.
There are entire worlds inside motherhood that nobody warns you about. You spend years memorizing another human being without realizing you're doing it.
And loving him hurts sometimes. Not painfully or badly. Just in that overwhelming way parents understand without needing it explained, where your heart spends every day existing outside your body in the shape of a little boy with marker stains on his fingers and endless questions about airplanes.
I answer another email and miss the exact moment everything changes.
Flynn's toy plane slips from his hand and skitters across the polished floor.
“Oops.”
Another hand reaches it first: long fingers, a dark suit, and an expensive watch. My breath catches. No, no, no, no, no. Not here. Not now.
Declan crouches automatically, catching the plane before it disappears beneath another table.
"Careful there, captain," he says absently. "We can't have aircraft falling out of the sky before breakfast."
Flynn giggles.
"It's okay. I wasn't done with it."
"Excellent. I suspect the passengers appreciate that."
"They do."
Declan smiles. "Good. Angry passengers are terrible for customer service."
Flynn nods seriously. "And snacks."
"An important consideration."
"I want to be a pilot."
Declan's smile widens. "That's ambitious."
"No." Flynn shakes his head. "That's airplanes."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Declan, however, laughs softly.
"I stand corrected."
Flynn points proudly to the plane in Declan's hand.
"That's the big one."
"The big one?"
"It goes really far."
"Useful quality in an airplane."
"And this one has snacks," he says, holding out the blue one.
"Naturally."
Flynn studies him for a second.
"Do you fly airplanes?"
"No."
"You should."
"Should I?"
Flynn nods.
"Because you know about passengers."
"I know enough to avoid angry ones."
"Good."
Apparently satisfied with Declan's qualifications, Flynn reaches for another plane.
"When I'm a pilot, my mom gets free coffee."
Declan smiles. "An excellent employee benefit."
"And Grandma."
"Very generous."
"And Mrs. Smith."
"Everyone deserves coffee."
Because I’ve heard that laugh before. Seven years ago, on a hotel balcony twenty floors above a city, over room service pancakes and an argument about clouds and all the little things that should have been forgettable but somehow weren’t.
I almost laugh. Not because the conversation is particularly funny, but because there is something absurdly normal about it. Something warm. Something easy.
And for one beautiful, terrible second, I catch a glimpse of a life I stopped allowing myself to imagine years ago. A little boy talking about airplanes while Declan teases him without even trying. Morning coffee. Nothing extraordinary or dramatic.
Just ordinary. Which, I’ve learned, can sometimes be the most dangerous thing of all.
Still smiling, Declan lifts his head, and everything stops. Not literally. Coffee machines still hiss, conversations continue around us, and somewhere near the elevators, someone laughs at something on their phone.
But all of it fades into static as Declan looks at Flynn and Flynn looks right back at him.
For one terrible second, neither of them moves. Declan's hand stills around the toy airplane, and the easy smile I'd grown used to over the last three days simply disappears. Not dramatically, and not enough for anyone else in the café to notice, but I notice.
Because I've spent the last three days learning something I somehow missed seven years ago. Declan doesn't get louder when something matters. He gets quiet.
And right now, he isn't speaking at all.
Flynn smiles up at him.
“Thanks.”
Declan swallows.
“Nice plane.”
“It’s a Boeing seven-eight-seven.”
“Of course it is.”
“You know airplanes?”
“Not nearly enough, apparently.”
Flynn brightens immediately.
“I know lots.”
“I can see that.”
“Mom says too many.”
Declan's eyes flick toward me, and something flashes across his expression. Not certainty, not yet, but confusion and recognition and the beginning of understanding.
Then his attention returns to Flynn. To the freckles dusting his nose. The stubborn cowlick that refused to be tamed. The crooked grin that somehow convinces strangers to smile back before they realize they're doing it.
And finally, his eyes. God. Those eyes.
I've spent six years looking into them every day. Never once mistaking them for mine. And suddenly, for the first time, I'm seeing them through Declan's eyes.
The color drains from his face. Not all at once, not enough for anyone else in the café to notice, but enough that I know. Enough that terror begins its slow climb up my spine.
Flynn, blissfully unaware that the universe has just decided to ruin everyone's morning, beams at him.
“My mom says clouds look like mashed potatoes.”
Declan completely freezes, and I know exactly why.
Seven years ago, standing on a hotel balcony twenty floors above a city, we'd spent twenty minutes arguing about whether clouds looked more like ships or mashed potatoes.
I'd forgotten about that conversation. Apparently, he hadn't.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us even seems to breathe as the memory hangs between us, strange and impossible and suddenly far more important than it ever had any right to be.
The silence between us hums with something that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with the impossible truth unfolding in front of us.
Slowly, Declan rises to his feet, and when his eyes find mine, I can almost see the realization happening behind them.
The questions. The memories. The impossible arithmetic of seven years and a six-year-old boy with brown eyes and an endless fascination with airplanes.
A forgotten conversation about mashed potatoes and clouds.
A hundred small things that meant nothing on their own suddenly collide into something neither of us can explain away.
The pieces fall into place one after another until there are simply too many to ignore.
“Talia.”
My name leaves his mouth quietly, rough around the edges in a way I've never heard before. There is no anger in it, which somehow makes it worse.
Flynn looks between us curiously.
“Mom?”
My fingers tighten around Flynn's shoulder as Declan looks at him once more before his gaze returns to mine. And when he speaks again, his voice is pitched low enough that only I hear the quiet ache beneath it.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
My hand remains on Flynn's shoulder. Because some truths arrive seven years late and still somehow hurt right on time, I meet his shattered gaze and answer with one of my own.
“You weren't ready to listen.”