Page 22 of All of Me

His words hit me hard. I feel a mix of pride and disbelief. He wants to be like me? The thought is equal parts flattering and terrifying. What does he see in me that makes him want to follow my path? Does he know how much I second-guess myself, how often I feel like I’m barely holding it together? I crouch down to his level, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You wanna be like me?”

He nods enthusiastically, his face so earnest it’s like looking at a mirror of my own childhood self, back when I still thought my dad hung the moon. “You fix things, and you’re strong, and you help people. That’s what I wanna do.”

For a moment, all I can do is look at him. My throat feels tight, and I swallow hard, trying to shake off the sudden rush of emotion. “You know, buddy, it’s not always easy work. It can get dirty and tough.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately and with conviction. “I don’t mind getting dirty. Playing in the dirt is fun!”

I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see my dad standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the light from the kitchen. He’s holding a beer, as usual, but there’s something softer in his expression, something I can’t quite place.

“You’ve got yourself a good kid there, Owen,” he says, his voice gruff. “He’s got the right attitude.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My dad doesn’t hand out compliments often. When he does, they’re usually reserved for accomplishments he considers tangible, work promotions, financial stability, practical stuff. This feels different, almost personal.

Barrett’s eyes widen, and he looks at my dad like he’s just been knighted. “Grandpa, do you think I could be a steamfitter like my dad?”

Henry steps into the garage, setting his beer down on the workbench. He kneels beside Barrett, his expression surprisingly warm. “If you work hard and listen to your dad, you could be anything you want. But being a steamfitter? That’s honest work. And I think you’d be great at it.”

Barrett beams, his small chest puffing out with pride. He turns back to me, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Did you hear that, Dad? Grandpa thinks I’d be great!”

I smile, ruffling his hair. “I heard. And I agree.”

Barrett peppers my dad with questions about the tools, what they’re for, how they work, as I lean back against the workbench, letting the moment settle around me. The garage feels different now, less like a room weighed down by old memories and more like the foundation of something new. My dad interacts with Barrett with a patience I don’t recall from my own childhood, his responses measured and calm.

A flicker of connection stirs between us, faint but unmistakable. Maybe he’s beginning to understand what it means to show up, to be present in the ways that matter. Building something solid isn’t just about the tools in his hands; it’s about the bonds we create, the effort we put into shaping the relationships that need the most care.

Barrett’s laugh pulls me from my thoughts, and I watch as he carefully sets the wrench back on the bench, following my dad’s instructions. He bounds back toward the living room, calling for Callie to see “all the stuff” Grandpa showed him. I stay behind for a moment with my dad, his expression unreadable.

“He’s got your heart,” he says quietly, and then he picks up his beer and heads back inside.

I stand there alone in the quiet garage, my chest tight. He’s got my heart, huh? I hope so. I hope he’s got all the best parts of me. I hope I can teach him what it means to be strong for the people who matter most.

nine

FIGHT SONG - RACHEL PLATTEN

CALLIE - NOVEMBER 30, 2013

It’s strange how quickly life can shift, how moments that should be warm and filled with love can instead be tense and uncomfortable, like a thread stretched thin, ready to snap. I sit on the edge of the couch, my eyes fixed on Adam. He holds Ruby, our daughter, a part of both of us, yet caught in between. His focus is entirely on her as if he can will her tiny, sleeping form to fix everything broken between us. No matter how long he holds her or how often he comes over, that damage was done long before Ruby was born. We may have created a beautiful, innocent life together, but the history between us is far from innocent. It’s bruised and battered. I sometimes wonder if it ever truly healed.

Adam’s thumb brushes across Ruby’s delicate fist. My heart softens for a moment at the sight. He looks so different when he’s with her, like the Adam I used to know. The man I married. The one who could make me laugh until I cried. The one I thought I would spend my life with. That man is a ghost now, a shadow of a memory flickering in and out of my mind.

Seeing him with Ruby makes something twist in my chest. I wish it could just be about her, about giving her the love and care she deserves, but it’s not that simple. Not with Adam, he doesn’t make anything simple.

“You’ve got to be joking about the no over-nights thing, right?” His voice cuts through the room, shattering the fragile peace like a rock through glass. He doesn’t even bother looking at me when he says it, as if my opinion isn’t worth the courtesy of eye contact.

I clench my jaw, trying to stay calm. “No, Adam, I’m not joking. Ruby’s only four weeks old. I’m still working on building up enough of a milk supply so she can stay at your place comfortably. We agreed on six weeks, and I don’t think that’s even enough time, but that’s what the judge settled on in our divorce.”

I’m surprised by the steadiness in my voice. Internally, I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope, balancing between aggravation and anger. Adam has always known how to push my buttons, making me feel unreasonable, like I’m overreacting. I’m not, though. I know I’m not. This is about Ruby, not about us. I repeat that in my head like a mantra, hoping it’ll stick.

Adam shifts in his seat, his posture stiff. “It’s not my place,” he mutters, the words laced with bitterness. “It’s our place—me and Katie. Ruby’s going to be there soon enough. So, what’s the difference between now and then?”

“The difference,” I say, enunciating each word carefully, “is that I’m still breastfeeding. I need more time to store enough milk. I’m not keeping her from you, Adam. I’m doing what’s best for her.”

His jaw tightens and he looks like he’s about to argue, but he stops. He leans back in the chair, his gaze softens as he looks down again at Ruby. I let out a slow breath, relieved that the conversation didn’t escalate. The air between us is thick with unspoken words, words that have been festering for months, years.

I glance toward the window, the last of the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Owen will be home soon. The thought brings a small flicker of warmth to the pit of my stomach, a reminder that I’m not in this alone, and the strength to get through this visit with Adam without things boiling over.

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