Page 40 of Doyle

He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

"Alright, son. We'll call him if we have to. But for now, let's just focus on keeping you safe here,” he said.

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease.

For tonight, at least, I was home. And I had my dad. In the back of my mind, I knew we couldn’t do this alone.

Calling Doyle was the best solution but…I thought of our phone call earlier.

Doyle probably had a lot going on, and I didn’t want to add more to his plate. Despite my misgivings, I didn’t call him back.

“Have you had anything to eat tonight, Mike?” my dad asked, trying to lighten the mood.

I shook my head. “I don’t have an appetite,” I said.

“Well, I’m in the mood for an omelet,” he said. “I can make two.”

“Omelet for dinner?” I asked, playing along, because we both needed a sense of normalcy right now.

“Why not?” my dad replied with a shrug.

“Alright,” I said with a nod.

We made our way to the kitchen, and I felt a little better.

The familiar sounds of my dad rummaging through the fridge and clattering pans on the stove helped ground me.

I leaned against the counter, watching my dad whisk eggs.

As he tossed diced vegetables and cheese into the pan, the aroma started to fill the kitchen, bringing a sense of warmth and normalcy.

It struck me why this scene seemed so familiar—Doyle had made me breakfast the first morning I finally realized I was free.

The memory of Doyle asking me how I wanted my eggs came rushing back and the longing hit me hard.

I missed him terribly all of a sudden.

That was unfair, I reminded myself, pushing the thought away and focusing on my dad instead.

My dad glanced at me, a soft smile on his face.

“You always liked extra cheese in your omelet, right?” My dad asked.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, recalling how awful to him I’d been this afternoon.

“Yeah, extra cheese,” I agreed.

“Do you remember the last time we had omelets for dinner?” my dad asked.

I thought back, trying to recall.

“I think it was after one of my soccer games. I must have been around ten,” I said.

He smiled. “Yeah, you were so exhausted you fell asleep at the table. I had to carry you to bed.”

We both laughed, the memory a small cure to our frayed nerves. For a moment, my problems didn’t matter.

We were just a father and son, sharing a meal and a memory.

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