“And they had feathers. Like chickens.” He makes a clucking sound, and I feel my mouth twitch into a smile.
“Smart kid,” I say.
“That's what Mama always says.” He takes a sip of juice. Considering. “Are you really strong?”
“Pretty strong,” I admit.
“Stronger than the bad men?”
The question hits harder than expected. “Yes,” I say. “Stronger than them.”
He nods, satisfied. Goes back to his sandwich. But something's shifted. I can feel a question building in him. Can see it in the way his eyes dart to me and away again.
Finally, he sets down his food. Looks straight at me. “Are you my real dad?”
The world stops. Just for a moment. Everything narrows to this small boy with my eyes, asking the question that changes everything.
I could lie. Could say we'll talk about it when he's older. Could defer to Lilly.
But I don't.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”
He nods. Not surprised. Not upset. Like he's confirming something he already knew.
“I thought so,” he says simply. “You have the same eyes as me.”
“I do.”
“Why didn't you live with us before?”
The question cuts deep. How do I explain five years of absence to a child?
“I was away,” I tell him, settling on the simplest truth.
He accepts this with the easy logic of childhood. “But now you are here. So you can stay.”
It's not a question.
A statement.
A fact in his world.
“I'd like that,” I say, and I mean it more than I've meant anything in my life.
We spend another hour fishing. Actually catch two small trout, which Chleo is both fascinated and disgusted by. I show him how to release them back into the lake, his small hands gentle as he watches them swim away.
By the time we pack up, the sun is starting its descent. Chleo's eyes are heavy.
He falls asleep in the car, head lolling against the booster seat. I drive carefully. One eye on the road. One in the rearview mirror, watching my son sleep.
My son.
The words fit better now. Feel right in a way they didn't this morning.
I find myself imagining what life could be like.
Fishing trips.