Ryan's gray eyes narrow, and he folds his arms over his chest as he stares me down. Very slowly, I take another bite and smile down at the irate boy.
"Grandma, I want ice cream." With his attention now focused on his grandmother, his voice softens and his eyes are wide. Oh, well done, kid. He's trying to play her, but her lack of response tells me she's not buying it. I would have been surprised if she did, actually. I try to hide the smile on my face as she takes a bite of her ice cream and murmurs sounds of appreciation as she licks her spoon.
"You have until I finish my ice cream to tell me what happened," I say and take another bite. I'm mostly done now. Ryan eyes my bowl nervously as he shifts in his seat. After a few more minutes, he turns toward me.
"I'm not in trouble?"
"Nope. Whatever it is, you get a free pass this time." Whatever it is, I hope it's not so bad that I've made some kind of epic mistake by giving him a pass. Not that I can really do much of anything since he's not my kid, but I can stop doing the extras. I don't have to give him the approval he so desperately desires. I hate to take away something he needs, but it's literally the only leverage I have. Like all kids, he wants to be told he's good and worth being loved.
"Ian started crying. I wanted him to stop, but he wouldn't."
"Why was he crying?" A lump forms in my throat, making it hard for me to speak, but I manage. I should be used to it by now--the intense gut reaction that happens when my boy is hurting--but I'm not. And I'm starting to think I never will.
"I don't know. I didn't do anything."
Turning to my son, I reach out and place a hand on his arm gently. Ian's eyes lift to mine before they slide over to Sylvia. She gives him a soft smile. Most of the tension seems to leave his body at the small gesture.
"What happened, baby?"
"Jenny touched my face."
"And you started crying?"
Ian nods his head but doesn't look my way. Instead, his eyes fall on Ryan, who's looking right back at him.
"What happened next?" Sylvia's eyes are on me as I ask the question. Her gaze seems to have softened some. The more time I spend around Sylvia, the less I see her harsh lines and disapproval, and the more I see a woman hardened by life. She looks tired and rundown. She's old enough to be my mother, but when I look at her, I have to wonder if I look as haggard. Most days, I'm grateful for even a moment's relief. A single breath where I don't worry about my son or if I'm going to lose my job and be out on my ass again. An hour where I'm not terrified of all the good that we're getting because we've had so much bad that I can't quite believe the good will last. What I would give to not live in fear every single day . . .
"Answer her," Sylvia says, eyeing Ryan. I have to shake away my thoughts so I can refocus. It's getting late, and I have yet to get any answers.
"Jenny made him cry, so I told her not to do that."
"And?" As I wait for the rest of the story--because there must be more to it--I fix the boys each a bowl of ice cream and hold them ransom until they get to the damn point already. It's not the big things that exhaust me as a mom. It's the little moments like this where I can't just ask a question and get a straight answer. Everything is a production with kids.
"I pushed her," Ryan says. He's barely noted the bowls in my hands. Instead, his eyes are on mine. There's a kind of desperate need in his gaze that makes me want to reach out and hug him. And I probably would if his grandmother weren't right here. But she is. Ryan is her boy, not mine. I can barely take care of my own son, let alone someone else's. Not to mention everything I've lost that I don't dare mention.
I hate the idea of a kid Ryan's size pushing a girl, but I nod my head to urge him to keep going. He's talking to me, and that's a sign of trust that I value.
"Ian got mad at me for pushing her. I was only trying to help. He was being stupid."
I stifle a yawn and hand the bowls to the boys. I'm too tired for any more of a play by play. Especially with Sylvia sitting here, watching me deal with this. So I run through all the shit I'm obligated to know as an adult in charge, like asking if Jenny is smaller than they are, and asking Ryan if he understands why pushing other people--especially people smaller than him--is wrong. They yawn and get grouchy as they try to respond. A few times I have to snap my fingers to get Ian's attention. The poor kid is half-asleep since it's already a solid hour after his bedtime. That's new, the bedtime thing. He used to have one a long time ago, but it kind of fell off with all the moving and chaos we were living in every day. Now that we have some sense of normalcy, I'm pretty rigid about bedtime, but this was a strange day.
I've already put my ass on the line for Ryan once today, but I'm about to do it again, whether his grandmother is watching or not.
"You don't like it when your dad is mean to you, do you?"