Page 14 of From Maybe to Baby

I should be focusing on Coach's plays. Instead, I'm thinking about pancakes and hidden phones and whether I'm doing any of this right. The hockey part is easy—see puck, hit puck, occasionally hit people trying to hit puck.

But the rest?

"Knight?" Coach's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You with us?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just..."

"Thinking about your vacation plans?"

I look up sharply. He grins.

"Your mother-in-law called me too. Take the break, son. God knows you've earned it."

Jesus Christ. My mother-in-law is calling Coach? Because apparently, she’s running a full-scale manipulation that includes my place of employment.

"I'll think about it," I say, the same answer I give the kids when I actually mean 'no.'

But somehow, I have a feeling 'no' isn't going to be an option this time.

The thingabout packing for kids is that it requires military-level strategy and the organizational skills of an event planner. Neither of which I possess, which is why I'm standing in front of Jace's closet at nine p.m., wondering if you bring a princess dress to a resort vacation.

"When in doubt, pack it all," Genny used to say. Back when she handled the packing. And everything else. My only job was to carry the bags.

The memory hits me like a check into the boards—sudden, breathtaking, and when I least expect it. I take a seat on the edge of Jace's little bed, surrounded by little clothes and even littler shoes, and let myself remember. Just for a minute.

My sister, hanging around for moral support, is finishing tidying up my disastrous house because she’s an angel. The kids are asleep, backup plans are in place for missed training sessions, and I'm packing for a trip I haven't even decided to take yet. Instead, I find myself reaching for a box on the top shelf of Jace’s closet. The one labeled "Disney" in Genny's perfect handwriting.

I wonder if Gloria or some other well-meaning soul put it there so I wouldn’t have yet another painful reminder of Genny.

It shouldn't still hurt this much. Two years is supposed to be enough time to... what? Move on? Accept it? Learn to breathe around the Genny-shaped hole in our lives?

The planning binder is right on top, because of course it is. "Operation Vacation," she called it, like we were planning a covert mission instead of a trip to see a mouse.

Day 1: Magic Kingdom (Pack extra wipes)

Day 2: Animal Kingdom

Day 3: Rest day by pool (Jace needs swim diapers)

She planned it all. Right down to which flavors of baby food to pack and which Disney characters we should take photos with. Only, we never made it to that trip. The aneurysm took her two weeks before we were supposed to leave.

So we went the following year when the kids were two and three. Not because I wanted to—God, I didn't want to—but because Lukas kept asking about Mickey Mouse, and Gloria said it would help, and I didn't know what else to do with the crushing weight of all those half-made memories.

It was a disaster. Lukas was scared of Goofy. Jace wouldn't stop crying for Mommy. I ended up on a video call with my mother-in-law at two a.m.

"You're trying too hard," she told me then. "Stop trying to recreate her plans. Make your own."

But Genny was so good at this stuff. She knew how many outfit changes a toddler needs— the answer is infinite. She remembered to pack backup stuffies in case the main ones get lost. She just... knew stuff. Important stuff. Mom stuff.

My phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts. Another text from Gloria:

Found more of Genny's old photos. The kids might like to see them

So many photos, and yet it feels like there are never enough. On the walls, on the shelves, tucked into frames and albums. I keep waiting for Lukas or Jace to ask why Mommy's only in pictures, never in real life. But they don't. They're too young to remember her as much more than a story, a face in frames, a name we say with happy voices.

Sometimes I catch Lukas studying her photos with a little furrow between his brows—Genny's furrow, on his little face. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle just out of reach. And Jace... Jace has started saying "Mommy would like this" about things she couldn't possibly know. Like her imagination is filling in the blanks.

Another text from Gloria:

---