“When?”
He shrugged.
“Before you met Adrian.”
I laughed through tears.
“That was years ago.”
“I know.”
Apparently, Dad had once told Ethan that when I eventually got married, he would need Ethan nearby to make sure Dad did not trip.
Ethan had remembered.
Dad had probably forgotten the conversation by dinner.
But Ethan remembered everything connected to the people he loved.
Saturdays with Dad were sacred.
The garage door would open at eight in the morning.
Dad would make coffee.
Ethan drank hot chocolate from the exact same old mug every weekend because he claimed coffee “smelled like burnt dirt.”
They changed oil together.
Fixed lawn equipment.
Organized tools.
Usually badly.
Dad taught Ethan to replace air filters, sharpen mower blades, and make grilled cheese without burning the bread.
Ethan taught Dad every line from at least six superhero movies and repeatedly beat him at bowling.
When Dad died, Ethan stopped going into the garage for almost two months.
Nobody forced him.
Then one Saturday morning, my mother heard the garage door open.
Ethan was inside.
Sitting on Dad’s stool.
Holding the old hot-chocolate mug.
He stayed there for an hour.
That was how he grieved.
Quietly.
By returning to places.
Now he was asking to stand in Dad’s place.
I reached across the table.
“Yes.”
Ethan stared.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
His face transformed.
There is no other word for it.
One second he looked cautious.
The next, pure joy.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
He jumped up so quickly his chair scraped backward.
Then hugged me.
Hard.
“I won’t go too fast.”
I laughed against his shoulder.
“I know.”
“And I won’t step on your dress.”
“Good.”
“I need to know which side.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He pulled back.
“I have to practice.”
That became Ethan’s mission.
The following morning, my mother called me laughing.
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