THE WORST MOMENT CAME TWO WEEKS LATER
I woke at 5:17 to a smoke alarm.
I flew out of bed.
No fire.
Just toast.
Mason was standing on a chair in the kitchen trying to make breakfast.
Grace was beside him.
Theo was crying.
Evie had somehow removed her pajamas.
June was screaming upstairs.
“What are you doing?”
Mason froze.
“Breakfast.”
“It’s five in the morning.”
“June woke up.”
“So?”
“Grace gets hungry when she wakes up.”
“Mason.”
He reached for a plate.
I took it from him.
“I’ll do breakfast.”
His face changed instantly.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
“No.”
He became angry.
“I ALWAYS DO IT.”
The words hit me.
I looked at him.
Six years old.
Standing on a chair.
Trying to feed four children.
Not because he enjoyed cooking.
Because somewhere along the way, nobody had convinced him adults were reliable.
I crouched.
“Mason.”
He looked away.
“You don’t have to take care of them here.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“YES.”
Grace began crying.
I lowered my voice.
“Mason.”
He finally looked at me.
“Your job is not to be their dad.”
He flinched.
“Your job is to be six.”
Silence.
I pointed toward the hallway.
“You can play.”
“You can make mistakes.”
“You can hate vegetables.”
“You can ask for things.”
“You can sleep.”
“I’ll count everybody.”
His mouth trembled.
That was when I realized.
He had been counting them every day.
At breakfast.
In the car.
At the playground.
Before bed.
I touched his shoulder carefully.
“I’ll count them.”
He whispered:
“What if you forget?”
“I won’t.”
“What if they take June?”
My throat closed.
“I’ll tell you before anything changes.”
“What if they don’t tell you?”
“I’ll keep asking.”
He started crying.
Not loud.
Just suddenly collapsed against me.
I held him.
Grace came over.
Then Theo.
Then Evie because everyone else was doing it.
June kept screaming upstairs because infants do not respect emotional moments.
I laughed while crying.
Mason looked up.
“June.”
“I know.”
He wiped his face.
“You forgot one.”
“I was getting there.”
For the first time—
he smiled.
