Page 16 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Oh hey, honey!” my mom calls as I rush into the kitchen, panic twisting my insides. “Did you get my ice cream?”

I skid to a halt, my eyes burning, my throat tight, terror making my vision go blurry.

Then I suck in a breath, force it out slow and steady.

“Yeah, Mom,” I murmur.

She smiles…then starts to frown. “Where is it?”

And I realize the bags of groceries are still on the porch, my keys still hanging from the front door.

“I’ll grab them.” I walk out of the kitchen on shaking legs, manage to get the bags and my keys and to bring everything safely inside, digging out the beef so hamburger pasta can be completed.

I stow the ice cream in the freezer so it doesn’t get forgotten and left to melt on the counter.

Then I put the rest of the groceries away, checking to see if there’s anything else she’s low on.

Probably, I should have done that before the run to the store.

But I’m not exactly running on all cylinders.

I’m tired and haven’t been sleeping great.

My stomach rumbles—well-trained to this form of sustenance by now—and I make a detour to clean up the wine on the deck.

Spoiler alert: it’s something else I should have done before the run to the store.

Regardless, some scrubbing gets it mostly out, and then I’m heading back inside, finding my mom serving up steaming plates of pasta.

“All ready, baby.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, snagging utensils and napkins and setting the table.

She brings the plates over as I slice the fresh bread I bought and pull some butter out of the fridge.

Then we’re sitting across from each other, eating the familiar meal, and I get another glimpse of the woman she was before everything changed.

“Did you see my new calendar?”

I frown. “What?”

She points to the wall where there indeed is a calendar pinned there.

A Grizzlies calendar turned not to December.

But rather to March.

Because that’s my month.

“Mom,” I murmur.

She reaches over, squeezes my hand. “So proud of my baby boy.” A nod toward my plate as she reaches for her fork, starts to eat. “Get chewing, kiddo,” she orders and the glimpse of my mom poofs away like so much smoke as she adds, “I need you to help me change a lightbulb before you head out.”

I pause.

Then say, “Sure, Mom. I’ll change it.”

Because doing it will only cost me a few more minutes.