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His jaw gets hard and for a moment, I’m struck by the sight. He’s only ten, but I can see the man he’ll one day be. I can see Holt in the undertones of the man I’m raising. Owen’s got that same drive for more, for success, that Holt has. It was apparent as early as pre-k. Hell, it was apparent before that when he’d play with his little toy blocks, stacking them with a kind of concentration that strove for perfection, even before he knew what perfection was.

It's ingrained at a cellular level, I think, this want to take the world by storm that some people just have. Others…others like me, we just want to live a small, simple, good life.

I’ve never really understood the things that drove my little brother, but now that I see that same drive in my son, I care to try to understand it, at least.

And more, I care to show him that this small life I live with his mother is beautiful. It’s something to be cherished. It’s worth everything.

I take a bite from my cone, chewing and swallowing as I arrange my thoughts into something I can verbalize. I didn’t realize how deeply my struggles had affected him.

I bump his shoulder with mine. More sincere this time, I tell him again, “I’m good, Owen.”

“Yeah.” Emotion pinches his expression. “It’s just hard seeing you like that.” His ice cream begins to melt where he holds it between his knees. “It’s hard seeing you weak.”

Weak.

Owen speaks before I can. “You’ve always been so strong is all.”

“I’m still strong.” I force humor I don’t feel into my tone. “Finish that cone and get the guns out, kid.” I flex my bicep. “I’ll show you strong.”

Owen smirks and a small laugh slips free. I soak it up like it’s the last one I’ll ever get, basking in it like it’s the glow of daybreak after a long, long night.

These last few months feel like a long, dark night. I’m relieved I’m working my way into the clear. Now that the headache fades, I feel more confident in the doctor’s sinus diagnosis compounded by a pinched nerve somewhere in my neck. My chiropractor seems to agree with the diagnosis and is readily working to aid me in recovery.

I think we might need to invest in a second new mattress, because I always wake with the headache. But that’s a small investment to wake without pain.

In no time, I’ll be right as rain.

40

STRONG MAN

JULY 2021 – 32 YEARS OLD

“Happy Birthday, Daddy!” Mabel screams over the sound of all the other voices converging to sing for me on my parent’s deck. Dad bought the lot the house sits on shortly after Owen was born. It took them another couple years before Mom knew what she wanted enough to start building. It’s her dream home, so Dad spared no expense on the finishings. She’s got a top-of-the-line chef’s kitchen that spills into a dining room with a wall of windows overlooking a massive, covered deck where she can sit and watch the trees dance in the rain, curled up with tea without the faintest worry she’ll get wet.

It's only the two of them in the house, and Mom’s not all that fond of cleaning, so although it’s their dream house, it’s not one of those houses big enough to make a man’s head spin around on his shoulders. But it is a house built for over nights with grandbabies, so there are extra rooms and space to play.

Off the deck and to the side, there’s a trampoline for the kids and a swing set equipped with Mabel’s favorite saucer swing.

The property is close to town, but it’s surrounded by trees dense enough to keep the road noise out that Dad claims to hate now that he’s climbing in age.

Mabel helps me blow out my candles, of which there are thirty-two, because when it comes to birthdays, my wife does nothing by half-measure.

When three candles remain after the initial blow, and Dad frees a sharp whistle to accuse with a tsk, “Girlfriends.” Faye’s brows lift and she slow-blinks at me as though to say, ‘speak now’.

Eyes wide, I point a finger at my daughter, blaming her for her lack of ‘help’ blowing out the candles.

Faye rolls hers. “Throw the child under the bus, why don’t you?”

When she twists to walk away, most likely for a knife to cut the cake, I grab her around the waist and pull her down into my lap. She lets out a little yelp, and the sound brings a smile to my face as I inhale the sweet scent of her.

Pulling her hair to the side, I nuzzle her neck. “The cake looks great.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a much larger version of the cake she first baked for me all those years ago, though now she’s perfected the strawberry filling.

Faye doesn’t like store bought birthday cakes. She complains that the icing doesn’t taste like real icing anymore.