“I brought some water,” I said, setting the plastic pitcher on the glass-topped table.
Ethan didn’t turn around immediately. He kept his eyes on the water, his thin shoulders hunched inside his oversized grey t-shirt. He was growing so fast his joints seemed to ache, his movements slightly awkward.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice flat and quiet.
He pulled the skimmer out and tapped the plastic frame against the concrete to clear the leaves. He cracked his knuckles, a sharp pop that made me flinch in the quiet yard.
“Mom,” Ethan said, looking down at his sneakers. “Can we invite him?”
A sharp, physical ache bloomed behind my ribs. I reached down and touched the edge of my silver ring again, turning it twice.
“Your father?” I asked.
“It’s my fifteenth,” he said, his face remaining perfectly still. “I want him to see the yard. I want him here.”
“He has a lot of commitments in the city now, Ethan,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and free of any bitterness. “With the new house.”
“Just ask him,” Ethan said, his knuckles popping again in the quiet.
I looked at his profile, so much like the man who had packed three suitcases and left on a rainy Tuesday last October. I had promised myself I would never beg Jordan for anything again, but looking at my son, the resolve began to crumble.
“I will send him an email today,” I said. “He is still your father, Ethan, and he belongs here if he wants to be.”
Ethan nodded once, a quick, short gesture, and put the skimmer back into the pool.
The kitchen table was littered with grocery lists and a half-finished cup of black coffee that had gone cold. I sat with my laptop open, the cursor blinking in the empty message field of the email draft.
Writing to Jordan always felt like negotiating a treaty with a country that had already conquered mine. Every word had to be measured, every punctuation mark weighed for potential misinterpretation.
“Dear Jordan, Ethan’s birthday party is this Saturday at two o’clock,” I wrote, my fingers stiff on the keyboard. “He specifically asked for you to be there. We would love to have you join us by the pool.”
I cleared my throat, the kitchen silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator.
Mara walked back into the room, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. She stopped behind my shoulder, her ponytail swinging as she leaned down to read the screen.
“You’re actually doing it,” she said, her voice dropping into a hard, disappointed register.
“He asked me to, Mara,” I said, not looking up. “I can’t tell his son no on his birthday.”
“He’s going to bring her,” Mara said, her hands clenching into small fists at her sides. “He won’t come alone.”
