Chapter 15
Noah’s fourth birthday came in spring.
He asked for one thing.
A workbench.
Not a toy one.
A real small bench where he could make airplanes.
I bought him one.
Mark built it.
That mattered more.
The two of them spent a Saturday sanding a block of pine into something that looked vaguely aerodynamic. Noah insisted one wing be crooked.
“Like Grandpa’s.”
I was sitting nearby.
“It’s your father’s plane.”
Noah shook his head.
“Mine now.”
Mark looked at me.
I nodded.
Fair enough.
Ellen made it for Mark.
Sarah turned it into a message.
Noah carried it to me.
Ownership had become shared.
At lunch, Noah asked where Claudia was.
Mark went still.
I let him answer.
“She doesn’t live with us right now.”
“Why?”
Mark looked at me once.
Then back at his son.
“Because she hurt you.”
No euphemism.
Good.
Noah frowned.
“She sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Can sorry fix snow?”
Mark’s face broke.
“No.”
Noah returned to his sandwich.
That was it.
Children sometimes ask questions adults spend entire lives avoiding, then move on because the truth was enough.
Later, Mark told me he wanted to move out of the lodge with Noah.
Not away from me.
Just somewhere that belonged to them.
I agreed.
That surprised him.
“You’re not going to tell me what house?”
“No.”
“What security?”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
Reasonable boundary.
When they left, Noah carried two wooden airplanes.
The old one.
And the new crooked one.
Before getting into the car, he ran back to me.
“Grandpa.”
“Yes?”
“Birthday next year, I make you big one.”
“How big?”
He spread his arms.
“THIS big.”
May you like
I believed him.
For the first time in a long time, next year felt like something our family had earned the right to expect.
