“Cooking? Fixing things? Working with his hands?”
“All of it, I guess.”
He swallowed.
“Sometimes I see other boys doing things with their dads, and I realize I can’t ask mine anymore.”
I felt my heart break a little.
“Ethan, you can ask me.”
“I know, Mom. But it’s different.”
He wasn’t being unkind.
He was simply telling me something I had been afraid to hear.
I could love him. I could comfort him. I could learn to fix a broken chair or change a tire.
But I couldn’t be his father.
And he was old enough to understand that.
“I miss him too,” I told him.
He nodded.
“I know.”
“We don’t have to pretend we’re done missing him.”
He looked out the window again.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
When we arrived home, he went upstairs.
I remained in the car for a few minutes, trying to gather myself.
