My little man walks slowly down the line, pursing his lips, like he’s bracing himself for the worst. I know for sure William, Greg, Ben, and I will never let him down, but old George is always a loose cannon. ‘Nice choice, George!’ Harry sings, dropping to his knees to get a closer look.
I can virtually hear George’s chest pumping up with pride. ‘Thank you, Harry. Nana Josephine treated me.’
The relief that swoops through me is palpable, and I can sense William’s, too. We both look down to George’s ankles. He has on a pair of thick navy woollen things. They’re vile, but a matching pair so they pass. I look over to Josephine, finding her smiling proudly, and mentally thank her and her forceful ways with the old boy, because the exposure of George’s aged feet is not a pleasurable sight when Harry makes him remove his socks. I shudder.
‘Nice?’ William asks under his breath, nudging me with his elbow. ‘We have silk and George’s monstrosities get all the praise?’
I chuckle and drop my trousers, now the examination is over, watching as Harry jumps up to his granddad. ‘Can I have my present now, Pap?’
William looks to Gracie for permission, who nods her consent. He steps forward and takes a seat, placing Harry next to him. He immediately tries to snatch the bag from William.
‘Hey!’ he scolds, pulling it away and giving Harry warning eyes. ‘Where have those manners gone?’
‘Sorry, Pappy.’ Harry’s tail goes right between his legs.
‘Better. You know, there’s only one man in this world who I’ll allow Nanny to love more than me.’
‘Me,’ Harry states without delay. ‘But you really don’t have a choice in the matter.’
I can’t help it. I burst into fits of laughter, much to William’s disgust, holding my stomach and wiping at my instantly wet eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I laugh, knowing I need to rein it in before he swings at me.
‘It freaks me out, I swear,’ William grumbles, shaking his head in despair and dodging Gracie’s hand when it flies out to smack his shoulder.
‘Hey!’
‘Well, c’mon!’ he argues, clucking Harry’s cheek affectionately. ‘How is it possible?’
‘He’s perfect,’ I jump in, wiping the crumbs polluting Harry’s fingers away with a wet cloth.
‘Thank you, Daddy.’
‘Most welcome.’ I want to scoop him up and squeeze him in my thing, but I resist. ‘We need to get going.’
‘Let me open this,’ he says, rummaging through the gift bag and pulling out what we all know is in there. ‘Look!’
His excitement over a pair of socks is way past unreasonable. I know that, yet I’ll never find the rationale to remedy it. ‘Wow!’ I join him in his excitement and take the pair when they’re thrust at me. ‘Very smart.’
‘They have horses on them!’ He snatches them back and holds them to his chest. ‘They match my shirt! Ooooh, this is just too cool!’
I’m beaming. Gracie is beaming. Every damn person in this room is beaming. Don’t anyone ever tell me that my boy isn’t fucking perfect.
Lifts. There are three of them staring at me. My unreasonable mind believes they are arguing between themselves as to who gets to feel me shaking inside, like it’s the highlight of their miserable day. The middle one wins. The doors slide open and my heart rate cranks up twenty gears. But I refuse to let my boy see it. This part of me I never want to burden him with. Never let your child see your fear. Everyone knows that.
Why the fuck does the therapist’s office have to be on the eighth floor? I can’t make his little legs climb that many stairs and his little ego won’t allow me to carry him. So I’m stuck with the poxy lift, and I have been since Olivia insisted on us coming here. My mood plummets.
I feel a little hand flexing in mine, snapping me out of my trance. Shit, I’m hurting him. ‘You OK, Daddy?’ His navy eyes climb my body until they’re locked with mine. They’re full of concern, and I immediately detest myself for spiking any worry from him.
‘Fine and dandy, sweet boy.’ I force myself to step forward, mentally shouting a mantra of encouraging words as we breach the threshold of the horror box.
Focus on Harry. Focus on Harry. Concentrate on my sweet boy.
‘Would you like to take the stairs?’
His question shocks me. He’s never asked before. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
His little shoulders shrug. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you don’t like lifts today.’
I feel like a fool. My five-year-old boy is trying to help me. Have my days of hiding this god-awful fear finally come to an end? Has he figured me out? ‘We’ll take the lift,’ I affirm, reaching over and smacking the button for floor eight, probably harder than is necessary. I’m determined to beat this demon.
The doors close and Harry’s little hand starts squeezing mine. I look down, finding him studying me carefully. ‘What are you thinking?’ I ask, however much I really don’t want to know.
He smiles at me. ‘I’m thinking you look very dashing today, Daddy. Mummy will like this one.’