Page 92 of After the Rain

"Hey buddy," I said to Cooper as he finished his breakfast. "How would you feel about taking a drive after school today? Maybe going to see something special?"

Cooper's eyes lit up with the kind of curiosity that made parenting both wonderful and terrifying. "What kind of special?"

"The kind you'll love," I said, hoping I was right. "But no more questions until then, deal?"

"Deal," Cooper said, though his expression suggested he'd be spending the entire school day trying to guess what we were up to.

After dropping Cooper off at school, Ezra and I drove out to the Victorian house to do a final walk-through. I wanted everything to be perfect for Cooper’s first real look at what would become our home.

The school had offered Ezra a few personal days—time to rest, to recover, to breathe after everything the custody hearing had taken out of him. He hadn’t asked, but they’d insisted, and for once, he’d let someone take care of him without protest.

They’d offered Cooper the day off, too, but he’d practically skipped out the door with his backpack. “We’re doing butterfly science today,” he’d said, eyes wide. “I can’t miss butterfly day.”

The house sat beautiful and welcoming in the morning sunlight, its white clapboard freshly painted, the wraparound porch sturdy and inviting. All the renovation work was complete now—new roof, updated electrical, refinished hardwood floors throughout. But it was still empty, waiting for us to fill it with our lives.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Ezra said, his voice quiet as we walked through the rooms that would soon hold our furniture, our memories, our future.

"Believe it," I said, pulling him close in what would be our living room. "This is us, Ezra. This is our home."

We spent the morning planning where everything would go, measuring spaces, discussing paint colors for the rooms we hadn't finished yet. But mostly, we just stood in each room and imagined our life there—Cooper doing homework at the kitchen table, family dinners in the dining room, quiet evenings on the front porch.

"The treehouse," Ezra said when we stepped onto the back deck. "Cooper's going to lose his mind when he sees that oak tree."

The tree was magnificent—easily large enough to support the elaborate treehouse Cooper had been describing in increasing detail for months. I'd already started sketching plans, measuring branches, figuring out the engineering.

"Fort Awesome," I said, remembering Cooper's preferred name for his future treehouse.

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's what Cooper's calling it. I'm just the contractor."

That afternoon, we picked Cooper up from school and drove toward the house with our son chattering about his day, completely oblivious to what waited ahead. Ezra kept catching my eye in the rearview mirror, both of us barely containing our excitement.

"Where are we going?" Cooper asked as we left town behind.

"You'll see."

"Is it far?"

"Getting closer."

"Are we there yet?"

"Cooper," Ezra laughed, "you've asked that question five times in the last two minutes."

"But I want to know!"

The house came into view through the trees, looking like something out of a storybook with its Victorian gingerbread trim and welcoming front porch.

I turned in my seat to face him, feeling Ezra's hand squeeze my shoulder in support. “This is our house now, buddy. Our new home."

The silence in the truck was complete. Cooper stared at the house with wide eyes, his mouth falling open as he processed what I'd just told him.

"This is our house? Our real house?"

"If you like it."

"Can we go inside?"

---