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Gramps chuckled.
“He wasn’t always big.”
“We call him Little Mick because he was named after his uncle,” Grams said gently, glancing at Gramps. “So when someone was talking about your dad, we’d know it was him and not his uncle.”
Rhett was quiet for a moment, processing. “Big Mick?” he asked finally.
Gramps cleared his throat. “He died, son.”
Rhett’s eyes widened as he looked at his mom.
“Yes,” Emilia replied. “You know that word, huh? Grandma and Grandpa died, too.”
“Died,” Rhett confirmed, going back to his food. He may have known the word, but it didn’t hold any meaning for him, not yet.
The table was quiet for a minute, everyone lost in their own thoughts. My uncle Mick, the original Mick, had died as a teenager, long before I was born. He’d been my mother’s best friend and my dad’s baby brother and I knew they felt that loss still, nearly thirty years later.
“Daddy Michael?” Rhett asked Emilia curiously, breaking the silence.
We all watched him in confusion, but Emilia seemed to know exactly what he was asking.
“When your dad and I were kids, he told me he didn’t like being called Mick,” she said.
My grandparents sat up straighter and glanced at me, then back at Emilia.
“He didn’t like being compared to his uncle. They were both big guys, and they were both smart, and both funny, and both kind.” Her eyes met mine again. “And he was feeling kind of bad about that, so from then on, I called him Michael.”
“Oh,” Rhett said easily. I wasn’t sure he’d followed what she said.
“I called him Mick when we were little, though,” Emilia said with a smile.
I appreciated the way she’d answered Rhett. She’s explained it all, even though he hadn’t fully grasped it. I had a feeling that was why he knew so many words—because she didn’t talk down to him.
I hadn’t just disliked being compared to my uncle, I’d hated being a reminder. My grandparents had never recovered from my uncle’s death, and I wasn’t sure my parents had either. I hadn’t known them before, so I couldn’t be sure, but I’d always been keenly aware of when I’d remind them of the kid they lost. My mom would send my dad a look, or my grandma would pull me to her for a kiss for no reason at all, and I’d feel it. The loss.
“We didn’t know you didn’t like it,” my gramps said gruffly, his eyes on me.
“I was a kid,” I replied easily, shooting him a smile. “I grew out of it.”
And I had. As I’d grown up and matured, I’d realized that while my similarities to my uncle had hurt in some ways, they’d also been a balm. I grew proud of carrying on the name of someone they’d loved so much. I’d never admit it, but as I’d grown older than my uncle Mick had ever been, I’d also realized that they didn’t have anyone to compare me to anymore. He’d never been an adult. I was no longer walking in his footsteps.
“You should have said something,” Grams said, shaking her head as she swatted me with her napkin.
“I told Emilia,” I replied, dodging. “That was enough.”
“Rhett Michael RumiHawtorne,” Rhett said happily.
“Yep, that’s your name,” Emilia confirmed.
“That’s a damn mouthful,” Gramps muttered with a laugh.
“Hey,” Emilia said with mock offense. “Not everyone can be named after lubricant.”
Gramps sputtered before bursting out in full-out laughter, the sound filling the room.
“She’s got you there,” Grams sang merrily, her own laughter joining in.
“Lubicant?” Rhett asked, making all of us howl.
