Chapter 13
The birthday room stayed closed for six months.
Not because I feared it.
Because Owen did.
Then he asked for cake.
“Same room?”
I paused.
“Why?”
“Balloons not there?”
We had removed them.
“Yes.”
“No balloons?”
“Unless you want them.”
He thought.
“Two.”
Exactly two.
We decorated quietly.
Two balloons tied near the window.
Not behind him.
Not weaponized.
He wore another paper crown.
Ruth brought cupcakes.
No guests except immediate family.
Owen looked at the balloons all afternoon.
Eventually:
“Can pop?”
I stared.
“You want to?”
He nodded.
We went outside.
He wore hearing protection.
Held one balloon.
Then hesitated.
“Dad do?”
I took it.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
I popped it.
He jumped.
Then laughed.
“Again.”
We popped the second together.
That was it.
No therapy speech.
No dramatic applause.
Just a sound returning to ordinary life.
Later Ruth said:
“He looked happy.”
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“No.”
She smiled.
Honest answers again.
The room had changed for him faster than for me.
Maybe because children are not attached to narrative continuity the way adults are.
I still saw ribbons.
Conrad laughing.
Delilah’s hand.
Owen saw cake.
That helped.
Then he climbed into the padded birthday chair voluntarily.
No ribbons.
He leaned back.
“King.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Paper crown doesn’t make you king.”
He frowned.
“It does today.”
Fine.
Temporary monarchy.
At dinner he asked for more frosting.
I said no.
He accused me of abusing power.
May you like
Ruth taught him that phrase.
I would deal with her later.
