Page 61 of Devour
His words break apart as he tries to hold back the sobs. I’ve never comforted a crying child before. I don’t really know how. But I remember how my father was with me, how he became my anchor when I felt like I was sinking. His tough love, his strength, the way he let me cry but never let me fall apart.
I plan to give my own son that same strength. So, I let him feel everything. I let him cry. And when the tears begin to slow, when the sniffles replace the shaking—I gently pull back.
“I’m here now,” I say softly, brushing his hair back. “And I promise to make up for all the times I missed.” He lifts his tiny pinky finger, holding it up in a silent pinky swear.
I can’t help but chuckle at the gesture. He’s been acting so mature for his age that I almost forgot—he’s still just a kid. I link my pinky with his, then we press our thumbs together to seal it.
“Now, let’s clean those tears,” I mutter, wiping his cheeks with my hand. “We Falcone men don’t show weakness in front of anyone.” Once he’s calm and smiling again, I nudge his shoulderplayfully. “Now that we’ve made things right between us, how about we make things right with Mum too?”
He nods eagerly. “I have an idea,” I say, leaning closer like it’s a secret. “Why don’t we make her favorite breakfast?”
“Scrambled eggs and toast!”
“Perfect,” I grin.
With our arms around each other, we march off to the kitchen like two men on a mission. His doctor hasn’t cleared him to go outside yet, but he’s free to move around the house and right now, we’ve got something important to do.
I’d already told Griselda to take the morning off, so it’s just Noah and me in the kitchen. It takes me a while to figure out where everything is.
Noah is propped up on one of the kitchen stools while I rummage through the drawers for the right pan.
Why are there five different pans? I’m having a brain stroke just trying to pick one. I really should’ve paid more attention when Griselda was cooking. This is chaos. I don’t even notice Noah beside me until I hear his little voice.
“The small nonstick pan looks like the one Mum uses.”
Oh, thank God. “This one?” I hold it up. He nods confidently. I grab it, relieved he knows what he’s doing—because am already stuck and we have not even turned on the stove.
He helps me choose the right spatula for stirring the eggs. Once we have the utensils, the next step is ingredients. I know we need eggs—beyond that, I’ve got nothing. I’m standing in the walk-in pantry, surrounded by shelves full of spices and ingredients.
My hand is hovering in the air, pointing at nothing, and the mini basket I’m holding only has eggs in it. Noah, who’s been trailing behind me, quietly drops something into the basket. I glance down.
Milk. “Dad.”
The word stops me cold. He just called me Dad. I was not expecting it so soon, and my insides turned to mush. I look at him, eyes warm. “Son.”
“Have you made scrambled eggs before?” he asks. I consider lying—but after the heart-to-heart we just had, I decide honesty’s better.
“No. I’ve never made scrambled eggs… or any other kind of food.” He grins.
“I’ll help you. I watch Mum do it all the time.”
Boy, am I glad he does. Because I was this close to calling Griselda and pretending this whole ‘dad and son breakfast bonding moment’ never happened.
“We need…” he starts, listing everything required to make it work. Most of the ingredients are on the top shelf, so as he names them, I grab each one and place it into the basket. He peeks into the basket in my hand.
“I think we have everything we need.”
We march back into the kitchen, and he begins to guide me through making it. Since I’m a fast learner, it actually turns out pretty well.
We make the toast next; it’s a lot easier and doesn’t take much time. Just as the last batch pops out of the toaster, Arie walks in wearing a short sundress with a low slit at the front.
“What are you two doing?” she asks, a curious smile tugging at her lips.
Noah answers before I can.
“We’re making your favorite breakfast, Mum!”
“Really… you two made this?”
