I thought I was protecting him.
Perhaps, without realizing it, I had made his father harder to talk about.
That evening, something happened that helped me understand my son better than all the conversations we’d had since David died.
Part 6 — The Old Spatula in Our Kitchen
I was folding laundry when I heard cupboards opening downstairs.
Then came the familiar clatter of a mixing bowl.
I walked into the kitchen.
Noah stood at the counter with flour on his sweatshirt and a carton of milk beside him.
“What are you making?”
“Pancakes.”
I glanced at the clock.
“For dinner?”
He shrugged.
“Why not?”
I smiled.
“Fair point.”
He reached into the utensil drawer and pulled out an old spatula.
I froze.
It had a chipped wooden handle and a slightly bent edge.
It had belonged to David.
Every Sunday morning, my husband used to make pancakes.
He wasn’t particularly good at it.
