Chapter 4 - THE BOY WHO DIDN'T WANT ANOTHER FAMILY
My son Ethan was waiting in the library when I returned home.
He was ten years old, dark-haired, serious, and far too observant.
He looked up from his book.
“You're late.”
“I know.”
“You missed dinner.”
“I know.”
He closed the book.
“Business?”
I hesitated.
“Something like that.”
Ethan studied me.
Then asked:
“Did someone die?”
My chest tightened.
Since his mother's death, he associated every unexpected delay with disaster.
“No.”
I sat beside him.
“Nobody died.”
He nodded.
Then reopened his book.
I watched him.
“Ethan.”
“Yes?”
“I met four little girls today.”
He looked up.
“Why?”
“They needed help.”
“What kind?”
“Someone was frightening them.”
His expression hardened.
“Did you stop him?”
“I tried.”
Ethan considered that.
“Are they safe now?”
“For tonight.”
He nodded.
Then returned to reading.
I knew that expression.
He was thinking.
After a moment, he asked:
“Do they have a dad?”
“No. Their father died.”
Ethan's fingers tightened around the book.
“Oh.”
Silence.
Then:
“Are you going to help them because their dad died?”
“Partly.”
He looked at me.
“Are you going to marry their mom?”
I nearly choked.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“I met her today.”
He shrugged.
“People in movies fall in love faster.”
I laughed.
Then he grew serious.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever marry someone, will you forget Mom?”
The question hit me like a physical blow.
I pulled him closer.
“Never.”
He looked down.
“Promise?”
I kissed his hair.
“Promise.”
He leaned against me.
Then whispered:
“Okay.”
But I knew he wasn't convinced.
May you like
And I realized that helping Isabella's family would require something I had rarely practiced.
Patience.
