I stopped walking.
Just for a second.
He didn’t notice.
I did.
I never asked him to say it again.
He simply kept saying it.
Life became routines.
School drop-offs.
Permission slips.
Dental appointments.
Haircuts I performed badly until I admitted defeat.
Peanut butter sandwiches.
Broken bicycles.
Science projects.
I once stayed awake until two in the morning helping Noah build a model volcano.
The volcano erupted sideways during the school presentation.
Destroyed part of another child’s solar-system model.
Noah won second place.
I still believe corruption was involved.
Money remained tight.
My longtime coworker covered for me more times than I can count.
When Noah had a recital:
“Go.”
When he had a fever:
“Go.”
When he broke his wrist:
“Why are you still standing here? Go.”
I used to say:
“I owe you.”
He always replied:
“No, you owe the kid.”
Adrian never called.
Not for Noah’s sixth birthday.
Or tenth.
Christmas.
First day of middle school.
Nothing.
At some point I stopped checking unknown numbers with hope.
Then Noah discovered basketball.
