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“There you go! Canadian!”
“Y-yeah. Can-Canadian,” he said. “But, did you know they speak other languages in C-canadia?”
I smiled, opting not to correct it this time. It was close enough, and honestly, just far too cute. “I think I did, but I don’t remember. What other languages do they speak?”
“They speak French in Canadia!” he informed me excitedly. “French sounds kinda like how I sound when I try to talk when I’m chewing gum.”
“Oh, yeah? You might not want to say that to Daisy. It might hurt her feelings if she speaks French.”
“No, I already told her. She didn’t mind,” he said. “But Daisy taught me some French. Do you want to hear?”
“Of course I do,” I said as I finally settled on a simple silver and glass modern lighting fixture. “Give it a shot.”
“So, to say hello…you say bonjour.”
“Oh, wow!” I gushed. “That’s so neat! Did you learn anything else?”
“I learned ‘good night,’” he said. “It’s...it’s…Bon nuit.”
“Wow, that’s so neat! Are you going to let her keep teaching you things?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I nodded a bit absent-mindedly as I reached for a set of adhesive hooks. We needed some for our room at headquarters. Cole kept misplacing his keys, which was proving to be a common trigger for his agitation on days when things were busy.
“Marley, is it okay that I call you momma?” Noah suddenly asked.
The question took me by surprise, not because I had any problem with him calling me his mother, but because we’d already had numerous conversations about that. He’d been calling me by that moniker off and on for weeks now.
“Of course it’s okay, silly,” I said.
“I heard Nanny and Gramps talking about how I’m not…um…there’s a word for when something is against the rules,” he said.
“Illegal?” I asked. “Did they say you weren’t legally my son yet?”
Noah nodded and fiddled with a Velcro strap on his shoe, pulling it open and closing it over and over. “Won’t we get in trouble if I call you momma? Since it’s not l-legal yet?”
It never ceased to amaze me how much a child Noah’s age could pick up on, even just contextually from the conversations adults were having nearby. I was certain that he’d picked up the words “legal” and “illegal” from overhearing the conversations Cole and I’d had while dealing with Curt’s bogus lawsuit, not to mention all the discussions we’d had about Lanyon Clover since the incident at the canneries.
To a five-year-old brain, I was sure it was baffling to hear legality discussed around false imprisonment and in the matter of his adoption by me as his son. I could only imagine the nervousness and fear Noah felt about calling me his mother when it was supposedly against the rules.
“Okay, so this is big kid stuff, so I’m going to explain it to you the best I can, okay, Noah?” I said. “If anything is confusing, you can just ask me questions about it.”
His expression became more serious before he nodded.
“So,” I continued, “‘legal’ can mean two things, Noah. Sometimes it means rules, and sometimes it means that the people in charge of our city or state agree with things we tell them.”
He looked a little confused, so I continued as we moved through the aisles of the store. “So, if someone steals your car, that’s not legal because it’s against the law. That’s one way to use that word. The other way—the way your nanny and gramps were using it—is the one where the people in charge agree with you. So, your dad and I? We are legally married. Can you guess what that means?”
“Does…does it mean that the people in charge think that you are gonna live happy ever after?”
I chuckled at Noah’s conclusion. It was both adorable and a perfect representation of what marriage meant to children: a happy ending.
“Mm-hmm. And it also means that when your dad has things, or when I have things, we share everything. The state acknowledges that your dad and I are a couple and we live together and share everything.”
“Is that why you sometimes let Daddy eat your food?” he asked.
I laughed and nodded. “Yes, that’s sometimes why. Sometimes, it’s just because he has a bigger appetite than I do, so I get fuller faster.”
