Page 25 of Reeves

I nod and thank him again before stepping out into the humid afternoon. The glass building gleams behind me as I walk to my car.

Nothing he said was wrong. From a business perspective, it all makes sense.

But as I slide into my car and check the time, I realize I have twenty minutes until school pickup.

This isn’t a partnership.

It’s an acquisition.

I'm not a hundred percent there, but it's definitely where I'm leaning.

I turn into the school parking lot, joining the line of cars waiting for dismissal. After that meeting, the simple rhythm of school pickup is a relief.

The bell rings, and kids flood into the courtyard. Benjy spots my car and runs over, his backpack bouncing. He climbs into the backseat, face lit up.

"Mom! We made rockets today, and mine went so high that the teacher said it might hit a bird. But it didn’t actually hit any birds because birds are too smart to get hit by paper rockets. But Jimmy’s rocket went sideways and hit Anna, but she didn’t cry because it’s just paper and?—"

I click my seatbelt. "Whoa, slow down, there, Bruce Jenner. What kind of rockets?"

"Paper ones with straws." His hands move in wild gestures. "You blow through the straw and the paper part flies off and Mrs. Taylor said it’s about air pressure. Air pressure is invisible but still really strong, you know. I made mine with blue paper and folded it tight so it went super high."

I navigate through afternoon traffic, catching pieces where Ican. His excitement fills the car, pushing away thoughts of productivity benchmarks and corporate policies.

"Did you write in your science journal about what you learned?"

"Yeah, but I want to make better ones at home. Can we stop and get straws? I need the bendy kind."

"We have some in the pantry from your birthday party in November."

"The stripy ones?" His eyes widen. "Those would look awesome!"

At home, Benjy drops his backpack by the door and heads straight for the kitchen. I fill a glass with milk while he rummages through the pantry for straws and grabs the fruit snacks.

"Can I go outside and play, Mommy?"

"Sit down and eat something real first."

He perches on the chair, legs swinging. I set an apple and peanut butter in front of him.

"So Mrs. Taylor showed us this video about real rockets and how they have stages that fall off when they’re empty." He takes a bite of the apple, talking around it. "And did you know the space station is as big as a football field, but it’s just floating up there?"

His gaze drifts toward the window. The treehouse in our backyard stands solid and inviting in the afternoon light. His body leans toward it while he talks, words picking up again as his attention splits.

"And Jimmy said his dad worked on a real rocket once, but I think he was just?—"

I laugh and cut him off. "Benjy, go play before you burst. The snack and rockets can wait."

He bolts from his chair. The back door slams as he runs across the lawn toward the treehouse ladder, climbing with quick, nimble movements.

I gather the plates and watch him through the window. That restless energy burns through him, always moving, always in motion. I’ve had the thought a hundred times over the years.

That part didn’t come from me. Benjy got that from his father. The kind of energy that never slows, that always has somewhere else to go.

Reeves always did. Planes, deployments, jet-setting from one city to another. Money and connections can allow you to feed that energy if you have it.

The realization still brings the same small ache. Sometimes I wonder what life might have looked like if Reeves had wanted this kind of life. If he had wanted us.

But he didn’t. He wanted movement, not the quiet that comes with building something steady.