“Yeah. I bet you look just like her.”
He smiles tremulously and nods. “That’s what my dad says.”
“She must’ve been beautiful.”
“She used to sing to me,” he says, a sense of wonder in his voice. “Every night she would tuck me in, run her fingers through my hair, and she would sing.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It’s so quiet now,” he adds. “At night
, when I crawl into bed, everything is just so quiet. Sometimes I can’t sleep, and I just lay there and think about her.”
“Have you told your dad?”
Jack shakes his head. “He usually falls asleep putting Henry and Emma to bed.”
“Do you remember what song your mom used to sing?”
“No. Why do you wanna know?”
“Because maybe I can find a recording of the song and you could play it at night when you go to bed.”
“Really?”
I’m probably overstepping a hundred lines right now, but it’s the only form of comfort I can come up with.
“Yeah.” I sit on Jack’s bed and pull him down beside me. “Just because your mom isn’t here doesn’t mean you can’t still have pieces of her. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.”
“What else do you remember about your mom?”
He furrows his brow, and then his eyes light up. “On the weekend she used to make special pancakes. They were so good. And she would always make mine in the shape of Mickey Mouse ears. She promised one day she was going to take me to Disney World.”
“That’s cool. What was in those special pancakes?”
“I—I don’t remember.”
“Chocolate chips.”
My head lifts at the sound of Grayson’s voice. He walks farther into the room, and I stand.
“Can you give me a minute alone with my son, please?”
“Of course.” I squeeze Jack’s hand, slip out of the room, and almost plow right over Emma.
“Can you do the bwaid now?”
“I would love too. Thank you for being patient.”
“What’s dat mean?”
I smile. “I’ll explain it while I braid your hair.”
11
Grayson