Chapter 9
It was Saturday afternoon when Dad picked me up. He didn't do the restaurant thing. He'd texted Mom that morning and asked if she could come to his apartment for a small redo, and when I got there the place smelled like pepperoni and cleaning spray.
He'd moved the little kitchen table away from the wall so three chairs fit. There were paper plates with blue balloons on them and a grocery store cake, white frosting with seven blue candles still in the plastic. A two-liter of Sprite was sweating on the counter. He'd tried.
Mom was already there, sitting on the arm of the couch. She smiled when I came in and didn't make a big deal about hugging me. She just said, "Hey, buddy," and let me come to her.
I had my dark teal backpack over one shoulder. Dad looked at it, then at me.
"You want to put that over there?" he said, nodding toward the hook by the door where he usually wanted bags.
I hesitated. My hand tightened on the strap.
He seemed to realize it. "Or right here is fine," he said quickly. "Whatever you want."
I slipped the backpack off and unzipped it. The blue inhaler with the clear spacer was inside. I took it out and set it on the kitchen table right next to the cake box without asking. My heart was beating a little fast just doing it, waiting for someone to say something about it being in the way or needing attention.
Dad saw it. He paused for half a second, then just kept opening the pizza box. He didn't move it. He didn't comment. He set out napkins around it like it belonged there. Mom glanced at it and then at me and gave a small nod, but neither of them said anything at all, and that silence felt different from the other kind.
We ate on the paper plates with our knees almost touching under the small table. Dad had cut the pizza into squares because the cutter was dull. He asked me about my new reading group at school and Mom asked if I still wanted extra cheese, normal stuff that didn't feel like anyone was performing. The inhaler sat between the Sprite and the cake, blue plastic catching the light from the window. Every time I reached for my drink I saw it there and remembered I could breathe.
After we ate, Dad brought the cake to the table. He didn't do the big singing voice people do in restaurants. He and Mom just sang quietly, off-key, and I stared at the seven candles.
"Make a wish," Mom said.
The flames were wavering from the apartment heater. I leaned forward. I didn't wish for toys or games. I closed my eyes and thought it very clearly, like a sentence I wanted someone to hear. I wish they'd believe me the first time I say I need help. I blew, and the candles went out on the first breath, with a little smoke curling up.
Mom clapped softly. Dad said, "Nice job," and his voice was a little thick.
We ate the cake. It was too sweet and the frosting stuck to the roof of my mouth. Dad gave me the corner piece with the most blue frosting because he remembered I liked it. I kept my inhaler next to my plate the whole time, and nobody asked me to put it away.
Later, Mom was helping Dad wrap the leftover pizza while I was on the couch with my plate. They were by the sink, talking low, thinking I was focused on the TV Dad had left on mute.
"I told her she can't be around him right now," Dad said, quiet. "Not alone. Not for pickups, not for dinners. Not until we talk to someone professional."
Mom kept her voice even. "That's the right call. She shouldn't have any caregiving role until a counselor or somebody clears it. That's not a punishment, it's safety."
"I know," Dad said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't told her it's permanent or over or anything. I'm not doing that over text or in front of him. But I'm not bringing her back here until we get guidance. I told her that."
I pretended to watch the TV, but I felt my shoulders drop a little. They weren't arguing about whether it happened. They were agreeing on what had to happen next, and I wasn't in the middle having to prove it.
Mom came over and sat next to me. She didn't bring up the talk.
"Good redo?" she asked.
May you like
I nodded, holding my plate. "It was good," I said. "Better."
Dad stood by the table, looking at the cake and the inhaler still sitting side by side. He didn't take the inhaler away when he cleared plates. He left it there, right where I could see it, until I was ready to put it back in my bag myself.
