“Ethan is coming down,” Chloe said, pointing her spoon toward the hallway.
The floorboards groaned under his weight, a slow, heavy rhythm that had become familiar over the last twelve months. He never ran down the stairs anymore, preferring to drag his feet as if every step required a conscious decision.
Ethan stood in the kitchen doorway, his shoulders hunched forward as if he were trying to occupy less space in the house. He held a piece of notebook paper in his hand, the corners already soft and gray from being folded multiple times.
“I finished the guest list,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into that low, flat register.
He laid the wrinkled paper on the damp counter, right next to the photograph of his father.
I looked down at the penciled names, counting fifty people written in his neat, tiny handwriting. It was a list that included neighbors, school friends, and cousins we had not seen in two years.
“Fifty is a very large number for a backyard party,” I said. “We will need to buy double the amount of food.”
Ethan began tearing a small strip from the top corner of the cardboard backing of his notebook, his thumb and index finger working with practiced speed.
“I want everyone to be there,” Ethan said. “All of them.”
He did not look up from his hands, but his thumb kept tearing the gray paper into smaller, perfect squares.
“Even your father?” I asked, my voice dropping.
He stopped tearing for a second, then nodded once, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood.
“He is still your father, Ethan, so of course he is invited,” I said.
My voice carried that quiet, formal precision I used whenever Jordan’s name came up in front of the children. I smoothed my hair behind my ears again, a nervous habit that always betrayed my composure.
