Chapter 2 - NOAH ASKS THE QUESTION
I took Noah home before anyone cut another cake.
There was no second cake.
My father offered to order one.
I said no.
Not because Noah did not deserve another.
Because he was done.
He sat in the back seat clutching the superhero cape in his lap.
I could see him through the mirror.
Frosting remained on his shirt even after my mother had brought wet towels.
His face was clean.
His eyes were not.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did Emma hate my cake?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel.
“I don’t know.”
“She said she gets all the attention.”
“I heard.”
“Does she?”
Children ask questions adults spend decades avoiding.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
I breathed.
“Because Grandma and Aunt Ashley sometimes give her more attention than they give you.”
He thought.
“Because she’s older?”
“No.”
“Because she’s a girl?”
“No.”
“Because Daddy’s dead?”
My chest tightened.
Adam had been gone three years.
Noah remembered him in fragments.
A voice.
A beard.
The way he lifted him.
A red mug.
Adam died in a highway accident when Noah was two.
I had received life insurance.
Enough to pay off part of our townhouse, establish Noah’s college account, and keep us stable while I rebuilt my career.
Not enough to make us wealthy.
My parents acted as though I had inherited Fort Knox.
“No.”
I answered.
“Not because Daddy died.”
“Grandma says we already got a lot.”
I almost missed the exit.
“What?”
Noah looked toward the window.
“She told Emma.”
“When?”
“Last Christmas.”
“What did she say?”
He shrugged.
“That Emma gets bigger presents because we already got Daddy’s money.”
I had to pull into a parking lot.
My hands were shaking too badly.
I parked.
Turned around.
“Noah.”
He looked worried.
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
“You never have to earn being treated kindly.”
“Okay.”
“If someone gets something, it doesn’t mean they had to take it from you.”
He stared.
Then:
“Did you hurt Aunt Ashley?”
Yes.
There was no escaping it.
“I hit her.”
“Because she laughed?”
“I was angry.”
“Was it okay?”
“No.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“But she was mean.”
“She was.”
“Then why not?”
Because five-year-olds deserve answers that still work when they become thirty-five.
“Because being angry doesn’t automatically give me permission to hit someone.”
He considered.
“What if she hits you?”
“I can stop her from hurting me.”
“You did.”
“I did.”
“Then you hit her again.”
There it was.
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Was that wrong?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Children are devastatingly efficient judges when adults stop editing facts.
“Are you in trouble?”
“Maybe.”
That scared him.
I reached backward.
“Whatever happens is mine to handle. Not yours.”
He took my hand.
Then:
“Can I still have superhero cake?”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
We stopped at a grocery store.
Bought the ugliest superhero cake in Colorado.
Noah chose it because the icing figure looked “like Batman if Batman got sick.”
We ate it at our kitchen counter.
Just us.
May you like
He blew out five candles for the second time that day.
This time nobody touched the cake before him.
