Page 15 of Stolen Dreams

A displeased grumble filters through the room, and I clamp my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. Early mornings—one thing Tucker and I would happily forfeit if given the chance.

I rest a hand on his foot still under the covers and give it a little jostle. “Going to make breakfast, bud. Any requests?”

At this, Tucker’s eyes ease open. He blinks a few times then nods. “The pancake cootie tray.”

We usually rotate through a list of breakfast options on weekdays. Most mornings, Tucker wants cereal. Occasionally, he asks me to cook. Weekends are reserved for entertaining breakfasts, visits to the diner, or creating something new with Tucker. Sunday, we make a list, load a cart at the grocery, and restock the fridge and pantry.

A couple weeks ago, Tucker asked for pancakes. Rather than make him the usual stack with a side of fruit, I assembled a pancake charcuterie board. I piled it high with toppings—butter, syrup, a handful of seasonal fruits, chocolate chips, hazelnut-cocoa spread, peanut butter, whipped cream, and caramelized cut apples.

When he slid onto his seat at the table, I’d never seen his eyes so wide or bright. He loved every minute of that breakfast. He tried to pronounce charcuterie twice before giving up and calling it cootie instead. I didn’t have it in me to correct him. Instead, I melted at the sight of my little man happy at something so simple yet memorable.

I tap the footboard of his bed twice. “One pancake cootie tray coming up.”

While I head for the kitchen, Tucker goes through his own morning routine. One he didn’t need me to set, but I made a few adjustments to.

It broke my heart that my little man had to grow up faster than most kids his age. His mom loaded him with burdens far too early.

Over the past year and a half, I learned Brianna never made him breakfast—or any meal. If he wanted to eat, he had to figure out how to make a meal with what was in her apartment. When he went to school, he found out what hygiene was because other kids said he smelled, and the teacher pulled him aside. Tucker learned basic life skills before third grade and was responsible for his own well-being.

My stomach sours every time I think of the mayhem Brianna put him through.

I wish I could turn back time and change the past. Suggest moving to Stone Bay sooner. Be insistent yet reasonable. I wish I had heard Brianna packing that night, woken from the slightest noise, and stopped her from taking Tucker. But more than anything, I wish I was able to save him from years of traumatic experiences and me from trust issues.

Regrettably, the past is irreversible. All I can do is focus on the present and how it molds the future.

As a single parent, my work schedule needs a massive overhaul. No sense in denying it. But I do everything within my power to let Tucker be a kid now. When he helps in the kitchen, I reiterate it ismyjob to get groceries and prepare meals. Although he knows laundry basics, I make sure he’s aware it isn’t his responsibility to put his clothes in the washer, start the load, then move them to the dryer after.

Of course, he has chores. But they’re standard chores kids his age have—clean up after yourself, tidy your room, dirty clothes in the hamper, help clear the table after a meal. As he gets older, I’ll tack more on. For now, I just want him to enjoy his childhood. You only get so many years to be a kid, to live a more carefree life. Kids shouldn’t bear the same pressures as adults. They’ll have decades to shoulder all that stress.

As Tucker steps into the kitchen, I slide the last batch of pancakes onto the cutting board. Fruits and the other toppings decorate the rest of the space. A cup of juice sits in front of his plate and coffee in front of mine. The timer on the range beeps as Tucker takes his seat at the kitchen island.

Bacon sizzles as I pull the pan from the oven. Hickory wafts through the air as I add the strips to a plate, take the seat beside Tucker, and set the plate between us. “In case you want something salty.”

“Ooh. I’m gonna make a pancake sandwich.”

A hum as my shoulders cave, the first sip of coffee works its magic. From the corner of my eye, I watch Tucker as he assembles his own breakfast creation.

Tongue peeking out, he hesitates on what to add next. When he slaps a pancake on top and makes ata-tumsound, I twist his plate and study his masterpiece. Pancakes in place of bread, a thick layer of peanut butter on both cakes, banana slices, mini chocolate chips, and several strips of bacon—it reminds me of Elvis.

I manage to bite back my laughter as he eats the messy breakfast sandwich too big for his mouth. Crumbling in his hands and falling onto the plate, Tucker carries on, undeterred. Before long, he swallows the last bite and finishes his juice. Without me asking, he takes his plate to the sink, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher. He comes back for his cup, but I shake my head.

“Finish getting ready. I’ve got the rest.”

His forehead wrinkles for a second, then he nods. “’Kay.”

I finish my breakfast, drink the last of my coffee, and start clearing the counter. Once the leftovers are stowed and the dishes are in the dishwasher, I head upstairs for a shirt and shoes.

As I near the bedrooms, Tucker says something in a hushed tone. Curious what he’s up to, I tiptoe toward his cracked door and peek inside. Sitting on his bed with his back to the door, he has something small and red in his hand. A toy car, maybe? He holds it but doesn’t play with it.

I angle my head to hear him better.

“Today will be a good day,” he says softly. “If someone is mean, it’s because they’re having a bad day. Their madness isn’t my fault.”

As quietly as I approached, I retreat. Entering my room, I close the door and slump against the wall. My rib cage contracts, compresses, feels too small for my lungs. I press the heel of my hand to the center of my chest, a doleful ache blooming beneath it as my heart weeps.

Someone is bullying my little man?

The room blurs as the backs of my eyes sting. The ache beneath my sternum morphs into a million little pinpricks, jabbing over and over.

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