My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
For a moment, I could barely speak.
“What kind of things, sweetheart?”
Noah shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
I glanced at him.
“Like fixing things? Or working on cars?”
“Maybe.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Just stuff.”
I wanted to ask him more.
I wanted to tell him every story I could remember about his father.
But I could see how difficult those few words had been for him.
So I said gently:
“You know we can talk about Dad whenever you want, right?”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
“And if there’s something he used to do that you want to learn, we can figure it out together.”
“Okay, Mom.”
He went quiet again.
I didn’t push.
But his words stayed with me for the rest of the day.
For three years, I had been so afraid of reminding Noah of what he’d lost that I sometimes avoided talking about David unless my son brought him up first.
