Page 126 of The Pucking Date
“Stop moving,” one of the boys orders. “You gonna wreck it!”
More laughter. The good kind. The kind this house hasn’t heard in a while.
One of the twins breaks away from the couch pillow prison setup, feet slapping across the floor in a sticky, half-socked gallop. His curls are plastered to his forehead, and there’s grape jelly on his chin like war paint.
He barrels toward me, fists clutching a crumpled piece of printer paper. “I made for you,” he announces.
I dry my hands and crouch down as he slaps it into my palm. It’s a stick figure with arms the size of telephone poles. One of them is holding a lopsided hockey stick. The other has a heart scribbled over it in orange marker.
“That’s you,” he says proudly. “You got the strong arms.”
I stare at the drawing. The lines are wild and uneven, the way only a kid could make. The smile takes up half the face. The heart on the chest is bigger than the head.
A breath catches in my throat, unsteady and unexpected.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say, trying to smile. My voice comes out tight. “It’s perfect.”
He beams, then runs off yelling something about rocket feet. I stare at that crooked heart and think about Jessica carrying my child. A tiny human who might draw me pictures someday. Who might think I’m worth believing in.
If I don’t screw this up the way my father did.
I’m still holding the paper when Aoife walks past with a stack of clean plates. She pauses just long enough to glance at the drawing.
“They think you’re a superhero,” she says, voice flat. “You should probably try living up to it.”
Then she moves on, leaving me there in the middle of the kitchen, heart suddenly heavier than it’s been all day.
I glance down again. That crooked heart. The joy in the chaos. No doubt in his tiny, sugar-hyped mind that I’m someone worth drawing.
And all I can think is, my dad never hung anything on the fridge.
I remember handing him a certificate in fifth grade—Most Improved in Math. He nodded once, set it on the table, and never mentioned it again.
I remember the time I got benched and still suited up in full gear to sit with the team. He told me it was a waste of clean laundry.
The praise came only when I scored. The love only showed when I won.
This kid doesn’t care if I win. He just wanted me to have arms big enough to hold him. And I want to be the kind of man that kid sees.
Even if I don’t know how.
The house settles into a strange kind of calm. The boys are sprawled on the living room rug under a tangle of couch cushions and sandwich crumbs. Aoife’s disappeared upstairs with a laundry basket and don’t-follow-me energy.
Nate slides back onto the stool next to me, fresh cup of tea in hand. He takes a slow sip, then props one arm on the counter, all loose limbs and quiet watchfulness. I don’t say anything. Neither does he. Then, softly:
“You gonna talk about it?”
I don’t look at him. “About what?”
“You pick.” He sets his mug down gently. “Your dad. The funeral. Or the fact that you’ve been sleepwalking through your own life for the past three weeks.”
My jaw tics.
He doesn’t press. Just lets the silence stretch until it feels like something I have to fill.
“I’m showing up for her,” I say finally.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
