Page 87

JUNE 2017 – 27 YEARS OLD

Ifill Owen’s plate with cheesy scrambled eggs, squeezing an unhealthy portion of ketchup into the corner before sliding it across the island at him.

When he steals a glance at Duke, who is waiting ever so patiently under his stool, I sigh, “One small piece, bud.”

Owen grins a grin that’s going to get him into trouble one day. At seven, I’m really starting to see the early signs of the man he’s going to become one day. Already, I’m so proud of him. Proud of the way he loves and treats animals. Proud of the way he wants to help around the house, help his mom. I’m proud of the way he asks about his baby sibling with so much excitement.

I’m just proud of my son.

I fill my plate with scrambled eggs, muttering, “Now, hurry up and down the goods before Mom comes down.”

“Yeah.” Owen tucks in to shovel eggs into his mouth. “We don’t want her to get sick again.”

“No truer words have been spoken, little dude.” I get our plates rinsed before Faye enters the kitchen, but at the twist of her expression, I’m not sure it helped.

“Good morning, Mommy.”

She forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Morning, bud.” Her hand moves to her stomach, and her grimace deepens. She makes quick work of crossing to the fridge, plucking the mini chocolate cake from inside. She grabs the fork I hand her with a muttered, “Thanks,” and then she takes a massive bite.

She moans in relief as I watch the nausea lesson, opening her eyes to look a little more like my wife.

“Urgh.” She places the lid back onto the cake. “I’m going to hate chocolate cake after this.”

“It’s only a bite,” I try to reassure her.

She glares at me. “Every morning.”

“Better than vomiting, right?”

She groans. “I suppose so.”

Owen no longer tells her it’s not fair that she gets cake for breakfast every morning. He’s seen what happens if she doesn’t get it, how she’ll be hugging the toilet for hours.

She leans into the counter, chugging a glass of milk. “This kid is going to be the death of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I tease. “I survived the olive influx of Owen. I think we can survive the sugar craze of this one, too.”

“Yeah, unless I get diabetes.” She grumps.

“Your bloodwork has been good so far.”

She chugs the last of her milk, heading for the stairs to get ready for the day. But first, she stops to press a kiss to Owen’s hair where he’s playing with toy soldier men on the coffee table, an interested Duke on alert as a soldier goes flying.

I choose the photo of Owen against the brick wall where he’s stood for the last two years. This year, like the year before, he’s smiling wide and proud—minus a tooth. We’ve upgraded the dino backpack to a neon orange cameo one that almost perfectly matches the t-shirt he wears. His sun-kissed skin tells the tale of an active life, but I make sure to tell Holt that he plays soccer and baseball, though I think his passion is for soccer. Even now, I can’t deny that Owen gets the same light in his eye for soccer that Holt got when he started playing hockey. It’s a light of passion, of obsession.

I tell Holt I coach the team—that it’s hilarious to watch the kids at this stage. Half are interested in the ball, the other half chase birds and butterflies.

Looking at the photo of my son again—his toothless smile and his favorite orange t-shirt, I press send.

It’s the last day of grade one, I tell Holt.

Because he never replies, I don’t wait. I just exit the text thread, slide my phone into my jeans, and make my walk back to my truck.

She usually feels better after her bite of chocolate cake and a shower, but this morning was a rough one. I know she’s upset she missed dropping Owen on his last day of grade one.

I hope she’s feeling better by the time I’ve got to pick her up for the ultrasound later today.

I drive to site, finding Tanner already there. I haven’t really worked hands-on in a while. I mostly drive between sites now, taking up for Dad to spend more time in the office and less time on that knee that’s been giving him grief the last few months. Mom wants him to see a physio therapist, but Dad’s got it in his head it’ll pass.