The late morningSan Diego heat beats into my car, forcing me to roll the windows down for a little reprieve. The thermometer on the dash reads ninety degrees, and the air blowing on my face confirms it.
“Daddy! I want a churro!”
I stifle a sigh as I veer onto the on-ramp. “Where are we going to get a churro, Soph?”
“Disneyland!” Sophia shrieks. I catch a glimpse of her with her fist punched into the air as if this plan is her best yet.
“We aren’t going to Disneyland right now,” I explain to her.
I look at her through the reflection on the rearview mirror. She pats her palms against her cheeks, securing the various stickers she placed there. With her finger outlining the smiley face at the corner of her mouth, her smug grin turns into a full-blown pout.
“We never get to go to Disneyland,” she argues.
“We went last year for your birthday.”
“But what aboutthisyear?” she whines, transferring one of the stickers from her face to the window. I make a mental note to remove it when we get out instead of letting the glue cure intothe glass, making it harder to peel off over time. She’s got quite a collection there already.
“How about we try to go for your birthday next year?” I attempt to reason.
She huffs, crossing her arms and sitting back in her seat with a reluctant air of defeat. “Do you think Mommy wants to go to Disneyland?”
My fists wring the steering wheel. I can feel the leather creak under my skin, and my knuckles turn a shade lighter. “Yeah, Soph,” I answer, disguising the disquiet in my voice with some twists and turns of the A/C knobs on my dash. “I’m sure she’d love to go.”
“Good,” she declares. “I want Mommy to go too.”
“I do too, baby.”
I still remember it. Sophia whining about when she’d be meeting Cinderella, her ice cream cone melting down her hand while we sat in ninety-degree heat. Kendall fighting off a looming migraine while I was attempting to keep Sophia’s tantrum at bay. It had been a long day, and we almost called it. Throw in the towel and drive back home, eating the overpriced tickets and Sophia’s dream to meet her favorite Disney princess. But then the sun set, and we settled in for the firework show. Sophia fell asleep in her stroller, and for a moment, it was just Kendall and me. We shared some stale popcorn and cotton candy, praying Sophia’s nap lasted long enough that she wasn’t still cranky once she woke. For a moment, I saw a glimpse of my wife before we had Sophia. Before we became what we are now. When we didn’t know a single thing about the wreckage we’d leave behind. Our choices, our mistakes, our luck, our fate. Before we knew what would be and only focused on what could. It was a good day.
“How come I can’t sleep at Grandma’s today?”
I peer over my shoulder. Sophia’s genuinely curious pout is jutted in my direction, demanding a logical explanation after I practically dragged her out of my mom’s house.
“You can’t spend the night every weekend at Grandma’s. She needs to rest too,” I tell her. “Plus, don’t you want to see Mommy?”
We’d left for my mom’s house early, letting Kendall sleep in. She had her therapy session first thing in the morning, something we both silently marked on our respective mental calendars, and I wanted to give her space. I didn’t want to hover or have her worry about Sophia barging in on her while she talked about whatever she talked to her therapist about. My curiosity always thickened by the time Saturday mornings rolled around. Was the therapy helping? What was she telling her? How come she can talk to a stranger but not me? Her husband. Her partner. Why did she keep everything bottled up and be so fucking polite with me? Why couldn’t she just talk to me?
Sophia nods. “Can we get McDonald’s for lunch?”
I swear, her attention span rivals that of a fruit fly’s. I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed that so many random thoughts can pelt through her inquisitive mind at the rate they do.
“We can have lunch at home,” I tell her, remembering the sandwich I left out for Kendall. There was no note or any kind of send-off to let her know it was me who made it for her. It’s not like we have a group of magical elves doing menial tasks in our home, so I’m sure she’ll know. But there’s a gap. A berth wider than I’m comfortable giving. I want to fill it with small sticky notes, letting her know I made the sandwich with mayo on only one slice of bread and with the thinnest slice of tomato I could cut. The way I know she likes it. But even the sandwich itself is a risk. A peace offering I don’t know if I’m allowed to give. A note would be pushing it.
Sophia’s pout deepens, and I offer a compromise. “How about after dinner, we go get ice cream for dessert?”
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Sure,” I answer. The child’s mind really amazes me. The ability to be so easily swayed with something so simple as dessert. I wish it was that simple for adults.
We pull into our driveway, and Sophia’s belt unbuckles at the same time I shift the car into park. She meets me at the door as if we’re in an unofficial race, and she bolts inside with my key still in the keyhole.
“Mommy!” she shouts, running through the house. She goes to the kitchen first, checking the most communal place in the house.
When we bought this house, it was the kitchen that turned out to be the selling point. Not the walk-in closet in the master bedroom or the closed floor plan we specifically sought out. It was the farmhouse kitchen sink Kendall’s eyes turned gaga for the second she saw it. And the marble island that has gradually become our version of the Peach Pit. The layout is perfectly set up so I can tell Kendall about my day while standing over the stove, and she can tell me about hers while reaching in and out of the fridge. We managed to Feng Shui the space to fit our lives only for our lives to no longer fit it.
I round the wall off the hallway to see Kendall on one knee, squeezing Sophia into a tight hug.
“Mommy!” Sophia protests delightedly. “I can’t breathe!”
