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My parents actually understood what it was like to grow up. They knew that sometimes, my teenage self would stretch the boundaries a little too far, yet instead of punishing me for it, they quietly accepted it and gave me grace. If I’d had the words at the time, I’d have thanked them then and there. The thought of their unconditional understanding still warms my heart to this day, and I am forever grateful for that.
This time, though, as I creep down the steps, I know I’ve paid my dues. No Oreos are waiting for me, only my little brother, who’s sitting silently at the kitchen table, enjoying his cereal.
True to his word, Milo has laid out the Lucky Charms and chocolate milk, and he’s deeply engrossed in reading the back of the cereal box as he enjoys his breakfast.
The familiar creak of a floorboard under my foot prompts him to look up at me, and I’m struck by his resemblance to our father. It’s as if the hands of time have turned back, and he’s wearing the same expression Dad had that day—not anger but genuine concern. It floods me with a sense of nostalgia, and I have to swallow hard. My heart aches at how much he resembles our father, even down to his expression. He’s not angry with me, he’s worried. This sweet and intelligent eight-year-old boy is concerned about me.
He can never know the choices I’ve made for him.
“Hey, tater tot,” I greet him as I step into the kitchen, busying myself with making coffee. His sharp eyes track my every move, making me fidget nervously.
“Do we like this one too?” he asks, his tone devoid of judgment, surprising me enough to leave me blinking at him. “I’ll reserve judgment for now, but I trust your decisions.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I turn around to tend to my coffee. “I do like this one too,” I admit in a soft whisper, just as I hear the shower upstairs kick on.
“He’s the one you were talking to in the middle of the night,” Milo says, his mouth still partly full of Lucky Charms.
“He is,” I confirm, glancing back over my shoulder to see Milo examining the nutritional values on his cereal box.
“So does that mean I’ll have three big brothers or three dads? I can’t figure it out,” he muses, his eyes wide with wonder.
I nearly choke on my own saliva in response.
After regaining my composure, I clear my throat and lean against the sticky kitchen counter. “No one will ever replace Dad.”
“I know that,” he drawls, emphasizing the words, “but I have ten more years of growing up to do. I need a positive male figure in my life.”
It’s far too early for this conversation. Albert, in his cat wisdom, hops onto the table and sprawls out, issuing a prolonged meow as if he agrees that it’s too early. I’m also not entirely convinced that two criminals and an FBI agent are the best male role models.
“You have me,” I offer, though I wince as I say it, already knowing it won’t be enough. I think about our dad and his easygoing nature. In eight years, if I find Milo sneaking in through a window, would I be as composed as our dad? Or would I snap and worry like our mom? I already know the answer—the worry would make me snap.
“Lottie,” Milo says, setting his spoon down with an air of seriousness. “I love you.” It’s the dreaded opening line to a conversation that’s likely to bring some heavy news. “You aren’t the baseball kind of role model I need, and I want you to find a partner.”
I bite my lip, unsure how to respond. “You think Lyric would teach you baseball?”
He shakes his head. “No, of course not. I hate baseball,” he says, blinking at me before pushing his glasses up. “It’s a figure of speech, Lottie. I want a male role model, and the only way I’m going to get one is if you choose a partner.”
“I don’t want to choose,” I mutter, nervously nibbling my lip and drawing blood.
Milo clarifies, “I’m not saying you have to choose between them. I’m saying that choosing to be with someone also means they get me. We are a package deal, Lottie.”
I mutter, “Wording isn’t so hot right there, Milo,” so he doesn’t hear, but I understand what he’s getting at. Anyone I choose to be with will also need to choose Milo, and that leaves me wondering if they would choose him.
Thus far, Lyric has shown that he would. He’skilledfor us, albeit on Desmond’s orders, but I believe he’d do it of his own accord if necessary. Matty, on the other hand, remains a bit of a mystery.
“What put that look on your face?” Lyric saunters into the room, thankfully dressed. His hair is still wet, curling as it dries.
“She’s overthinking,” Milo chimes in from the table, shoveling more cereal into his mouth.
Lyric leans in to kiss my cheek and then sits on the only other chair in the room, facing Milo. “Why is that?” he asks.
Milo, displaying an unusual level of maturity for his age, explains, “Well, I just reminded her that whatever partner she chooses, she’s choosing for me as well. I need a male role model in my life.” He delivers it seriously, as if presenting a case in a boardroom.
Lyric nods, leans back in his chair, and pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So she’s overthinking,” he concludes.
“Yep. She’s trying to decide if you are a good role model.”
I groan and hang my head for multiple reasons. Firstly, Milo knows me so well that he can predict my thought patterns. Secondly, now Lyric is fully aware of what I’m pondering.
