Page 122 of Reeves

"He's curious about everything, always asking how things work. Last week, he took apart a flashlight to see where the light comes from."

That reminds me of myself. I loved tinkering and understanding how things are put together.

Her voice gets softer, warmer. "He's obsessed with trucks right now. Has been for months. And water. Any kind of water. Puddles, the bathtub, the ocean."

"What's school like for him? Does he like it?"

"He loves it. His teacher says he's a natural leader, but quiet about it. And he's a protector, just like you."

Hearing her say that feels like a compliment, even if she didn’t mean it that way. I know she didn't mean it that way, and I hate that I'm making it about me. But I can't help but feel pride knowing my son has a trait she associates with me.

"Does he have friends?"

"A few. There's a kid named Paolo who lives down the street.They're thick as thieves. And a girl named Emma at school who shares her crackers with him at snack time."

I remember him mentioning Paolo.

I can picture him. Small hands trading goldfish crackers, serious face concentrating on some elaborate game only five-year-olds understand.

"What does he like to do when he gets home from school?"

"Depends. Sometimes he helps Mom in the kitchen. Sometimes he builds things with Dad in the garage. He's obsessed with going up in his treehouse right now."

I absorb all of this, imagining his life and how he's growing. Pride swells in me.

"He's a lucky kid. You're doing an amazing job."

She doesn't say anything back. She doesn't have to. I just hope she knows how grateful I am for her and everything she's done alone for the child we created together.

We fall quiet after that. Not the heavy kind of quiet from earlier. This is easier, like before Benjy, before we blew it all up.

Her breathing starts to even out, and her hand goes still against my chest.

I look down at her face, half hidden by her hair. Her eyes are closed, and the tension around her mouth has smoothed away.

She’s falling asleep.

I should wake her and send her to her own bed, where she'll sleep more comfortably. But I want her here with me. She’s warm, her soft skin against mine, and I can’t remember the last time things were this steady.

So I don’t.

Everything finally goes still. This couch. This woman. This house with a five-year-old asleep down the hall.

My son.

Those words together still don't fully make sense in my brain.But lying here, surrounded by the life Charli built without me, it’s harder to pretend it isn’t real.

Benjy’s drawings on the refrigerator. His shoes by the front door. The way he looked at me this morning, like I was someone worth showing things to.

I pull the blanket higher over her shoulders. She shifts closer without waking, her hand sliding against my chest like it belongs there.

Because it does.

This is what she meant. Not a visit. Not a few days. This.

I know what Friday means. I know what comes after that: a flight, a deployment, months where this doesn’t exist. I’ve built my life around that kind of leaving, around not staying long enough for anything to matter this much.

But everything that's happened since Thursday changes things.