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Michael
Tiptoeing downstairs, Iglanced around the corner and then hurried toward the laundry room, sliding on my socks around the creaky floorboard. I eased open the washing machine and threw in my work clothes from the past week and an exceptionally muddy pair of jeans that Rhett had worn. I’d added soap and turned on the machine when a laugh from behind me had me jerking in surprise.
“You dropped a sock,” Emilia said drolly, swinging the sock from side to side between us.
“Just puttin’ a load in before we go,” I replied with mock nonchalance, snatching the sock out of her hand so I could put it in with the rest.
“You’re sweet, you know that?” she said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Try my best.”
“And sneaky.”
“I don’t need you to do my laundry.”
“I don’t mind doing it.”
“Yeah, sugar, I know,” I replied with a sigh, slinging my arm over her shoulders as I led her through the house.
“You do a lot of other stuff,” she pointed out, patting my chest.
“Rhett!” I called as he dropped from standing on the couch to landing on his ass, bouncing and laughing like a maniac. “Don’t jump on the couch, bud.”
We’d already moved any furniture with sharp edges into the garage, but I still had visions daily of him falling and breaking his arm. The sweet baby that Em had brought home with her had turned into a death-defying adrenaline junky in the few months that they’d been home. He climbed everything, using chairs and stools in the kitchen to get up on the counters, shimmying his way up the outside of the banister on the stairs like a monkey, and generally almost giving us heart attacks every few hours. It didn’t matter how many times we told him no, redirected him, or made it harder for him to get into trouble—he still found it.
“Couches are for sitting,” Emilia reminded him as she went to pick him up. “Not jumping.”
“I jump.”
“No,” she said, poking him in the belly. “You don’t.”
“I jump,” he yelled back.
“So, this age is fun,” Emilia muttered to me, rolling her eyes. “You ready to go?”
“Just gotta get my boots on.”
“Rhett, you want to go see Gran and Papa?”
“Gramps?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah, Gramps will be there too,” I replied, stuffing my feet into my boots. “And Uncle Rumi.”
“Myla?”
“Yep, Myla too.”
“Okay,” Rhett said, bouncing in Emilia’s arms. “I go.”
We’d developed a system of getting out of the house, and I watched happily as Emilia strode out the door with Rhett, confident that I’d make sure to grab his bag and blanket. It had been weeks before she’d relaxed enough to let me make sure we had everything he needed. It wasn’t like there was much, blanket, sippy cup, diapers and wipes, and a change of clothes. She’d just felt like she needed to make sure everything was there, that it was her responsibility alone.
We’d been working on that. I tried not to let it bother me when she did things alone that would’ve been easier for us to do together… and she tried not to freak out when I insisted on helping. It wasn’t even a control thing for her—she knew I could handle it—she was just still struggling with that arbitrary amount of things she had to contribute in order to feel like she was doing her part.
It was getting better. She’d stopped worrying about getting a job as soon as humanly possible and had started really looking for something that would make her happy. She liked helping people and was considering teaching, but it would require a few more years of school and she wasn’t sure she wanted to wait that long to start bringing some cash in. I hated that she still had that in the back of her mind, but I let it go.
I couldn’t let go of the way she seemed almost obsessed with doing everything around the house. Some days I’d come home, and I swear the shine off the kitchen counters would burn my eyes because she’d polished the damn things. I had to cajole and threaten and seduce her into sitting with me and watching a movie after Rhett went to bed because she always had a list of things in her head that she still needed to get done. When I found her building the toddler bed we’d bought for Rhett, awkwardly using a screwdriver and cursing under her breath, I’d put my foot down and went to get the drill from the garage.
I didn’t let it become a problem, I wasn’t willing to cause issues between us, but whenever I could, I pitched in without saying anything. I threw clothes into the washing machine, cleaned the mud off of Rhett’s boots, picked up the toys that Rhett had spread across the living room—sometimes before he was completely done playing with them—just to take a little off her plate.
