The Life I Thought We Had
Alex was halfway through his second bowl of cereal when he made a very serious announcement.
“Dinosaurs could never be firefighters.”
I looked up from the kitchen counter. “Why not?”
“Their arms are too tiny. They couldn’t hold the hose.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “That would definitely be a problem.”
“Exactly.”
He looked pleased that I understood the seriousness of the situation.
Laughing, I wiped a streak of syrup from his cheek.
Motherhood had taught me that a happy life was rarely made from grand, unforgettable moments.
It was built from sticky countertops, mismatched socks, made-up songs, and important conversations about dinosaurs before nine in the morning.
I loved our routine.
Mornings belonged to Alex and me. Afternoons were filled with laundry, errands, and whatever imaginary adventure he had invented. Evenings belonged to all three of us.
Brandon usually came home late from the construction site, tired and dusty, with sawdust clinging to his jeans and a faint smile on his face.
No matter how exhausted he was, he always made time for Alex before bed.
He would kneel beside our son’s little mattress and whisper something that sent Alex into fits of giggles.
Sometimes I stood outside the bedroom holding folded towels, listening to them.
“Are you two planning something in there?” I would call.
“Absolutely not, Cece,” Brandon would answer.
“Nothing, Mommy!” Alex would echo before they both started laughing again.
I would smile and continue down the hall.
There was always a small pinch of envy inside me when I heard them sharing their private jokes, but it was the gentle kind. The kind that came from gratitude.
My son had a father who showed up.
At least, that was what I believed.
