I bit my lip and my belly flip-flopped. Safety glasses shouldn’t look sexy, but on Vic, they did.
Jackson passed him the drill, and a loud whir erupted, and then there was a sound of splintering as Vic drilled through the wood door, leaving a large, circular hole.
“Look, I’m helping, Mom,” Jackson said.
The bowl of batter crashed to the floor. I grabbed the edge of the counter to keep myself from falling. My heart shattered. It shattered, then melted back together.
Tears pooled in my eyes, and I tried to inhale a deep breath and failed. I wanted to sob and curl up in a little ball, and at the same time hop up and down and scream with joy.
I did neither. Mostly because I was still stunned and was unable to do anything except stare at my little boy who had called me Mom.
I quickly wiped the tears away and forced myself to speak. “Nice job, Jack-o-bite.”
I felt Vic’s eyes on me and looked at him. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to because it was there in his nod, and that warmth radiating from the depths of his eyes.
Jackson called me Mom for the first time. Mom. I was his mom.
I grabbed the dishcloth and bent to clean up the batter spilled all over the floor, then began mixing a new batch.
I stirred the batter with the wooden spoon, my eyes constantly flicking to Vic and Jackson.
“Phillips,” Vic said, holding out his palm while keeping the deadbolt in place.
Jackson squished his lips together as he looked at the red- and yellow-handled screwdrivers sitting on the little table.
“Yellow handle,” Vic said.
Jackson picked it up and passed it to him.
Vic held it up. “See the cross?”
Jackson stepped closer and leaned forward to peer at the tip.
“That’s a Phillips.” Vic nodded at the table. “The other one is a square. Robertson.”
Jackson pointed at Vic’s forearm. “Why do you always wear the same tattoos? Don’t you like other ones?”
I stopped stirring the batter and smiled. God, I loved him. I loved that he was no longer afraid to ask questions, and that he let me silly dance him and tuck him into bed at night. I loved that he had finally called me Mom.
I looked at Vic as he tightened the screws in the new deadbolt. “Tats are permanent.”
Jackson stepped closer to him, locking his eyes on a tattoo of a bird in flight scrawled on Vic’s left arm. “Like the big black per-men-in marker? My teacher says it stays forever and ever. But Mom drawed all over my face with the blue per-men-in marker and she got it off.”
Vic’s hand stilled and he glanced over at me.
I smiled with a shrug. “Braveheart.”
“Tats don’t come off, kid,” Vic said as he turned the handle of the screwdriver.
“Even with soap?”
“No.”
“So, never?” Jackson asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“Permanent means forever, kid,” he replied.
Jackson formed a huge grin, like this was the best news in the world.