There’s even enough room for Connor.
We play for another ten minutes, our children asking questions in the subjects they enjoy: math, science, dance, drama, music, the world and love. Once again, we’re tied.
Connor stands, as though expecting the incoming end. I follow suit, tall in my heels, our table full of lively children that may physically separate us, but our minds touch and intertwine, as close as can be. Closer than if we threw the table aside.
I have everything I’ve desired. I have him. I have them. This dining room breathes life the way that I only imagined.
What else left is there to say and do?
I’m already triumphant. I’m already proud of him, of them and of me.
Connor stares intently, longingly, seeing and hearing every victorious thought that roars inside of me. His deep blues thunder with unyielding promises and affections and that conceited, burgeoning grin.
And deeply, he says, “Here’s a secret, darling.”
I listen, poised for anything with him.
“I’ve always loved winning, but I would lengthen the time it takes us to reach the end, just to spend one more second with you.”
[ farewell ]
April 2028
The Cobalt Estate Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
There are many truths in life, but as I stand opposite Rose across a table with our many beautiful children, I wield one that I condemned for years on end.
I’m in love.
With so much more than just myself.
This truth will never fracture.
Not even when our youngest son stands from the table. Our children believe Ben is about to ask a question. I don’t subscribe to this belief. Neither does Rose, her pierced, sentimental eyes leaving me and rooting on our six-year-old.
Ben has been distant the last twenty minutes, his gaze continuously traveling to the door. I’m not surprised that he’s about to digress, but I am truly surprised by his statement.
“I’m running away.”
Rose inhales, her collarbones jutting, and questions wring her gaze. Similar ones try to cross my gaze.
I let them. I let Ben see. “Why?” I ask.
“I don’t want to say why.”
Rose and I desert our places at the head of the table, a rarity. We near our son as he pushes in his empty chair and tugs down his aquamarine shirt that says Plants are Cool.
I sidle beside Rose. My hand slips into hers, and I thread our fingers. My tranquil, languid water next to her raging, ardent fire. We don’t block his exit. Whether it’s illusion or reality, he has the ability to leave if he wants to leave.
He has feet. He has a brain. He can walk out the door and leave us behind—and no, I would not want my son to run away. At the mere thought, I have a heart that might be breaking.
I have a mind that might be splitting.
Before we handle this situation, Charlie interjects, “He’s not serious.”
Ben’s face grows red with hurt, ire, and frustrations, and I know—immediately I understand my son.
I sense a similar acknowledgement pass through Rose. We stand directly on the same page of the same story in the same book.
I ask Ben, “Would you like us to help you pack?”
His mouth opens, surprised.
“It is what you want, isn’t it?”
Ben hesitates and then nods.
Stilted but fiery, Rose tells him, “You can’t forget your toothbrush. I don’t care if you refuse to brush, but at least pack it in your bag. Do I need to make you a list?”
Ben thinks harder. “…I’d like a list but with pictures.”
“Then pictures it will be,” Rose says so affectionately that she might as well be hugging our son.
“Would you like a map?” I question. “What else do you need from us?” We would give you the world if we could.
“I have a map. I drew one yesterday, and I’m walking, so I don’t need much.”
Eliot and Tom snicker, not meaning to be cruel, but by laughing they unknowingly disregard his opinions.
Ben rotates to his brother that teeters on the frame of a chair and the other who slouches beside him. “I’m serious!!” he yells from his core, his neck beet-red. “I’m leaving! I’m leaving and never coming back!!”
Their faces fall. Understanding in this moment the true meaning and gravity of his words. It does not matter whether he can leave. It matters that he feels like he should.
“Pippy?” Jane calls out.
“Ben?” Eliot and Tom say together.
When Ben crosses his thin arms and turns his back to the table, our children fall into hushed whispers.
Rose and I guide our son towards a teacart, close to the door. He breathes heavily, frustrated tears welling. We crouch to his height. Rose dabs his cheeks with a clean cloth napkin. I whisper a few soothing sentiments in French while he catches his breath.
Ben wants to be heard.
We hear him and listen to him every day. He may believe tonight we’ve shot down his ideas, but I’m not drowning each one. I’m challenging them, and he has every right to stand by his convictions. However outlandish and fantastical they may be. Rose and I would still be here, with him, no matter what he thought in the way that he thought.
I take his opinions seriously, even if they’re grounded in fantasy. I never call them nonsense. I never label him as absurd. He’s my idealistic son that dreams in undiscovered colors.
That is fact.
He sniffs, cheeks dried and breathing more at ease.
And I tell him, “If your motive is to truly leave, we’ll help you.”
Rose combats tears as she says, “Our hearts would break every step of the way, but we’d help you.”
Ben rubs at his watery eyes, dismayed.
“You have choices,” I say gently. “You will always have choices. We respect yours, and it will pain us to watch you leave. We would let you go because that’s your desire. Is that what you truly want?”
There’s a fear that he will say yes. I can tell myself that realistically and logically he will never run away, but walking through the illusion will be excruciating. I can’t separate the sentiments, and I don’t try to convince myself that I can.
I know that I can’t. He’s my son. He’s a piece of this family.
He’s not expendable.
And we’ll go as far as packing his bags. We’ll watch him roll his suitcase down the stairs, down the street. We will pretend our son has left us until he recognizes his ideas live in neon castles and clouds.
If he didn’t reach that point before he reached the neighborhood gate, we wouldn’t let him leave. We’ll play into desires for as long as we can, but we’ll never risk his safety.
All so he feels heard. So he feels understood. We’d do this out of love.
Ben wavers, face splotched red.
“What is it?” I whisper.
His head hangs. “I don’t fit in here.”
With hot passion, Rose says, “Yes, you do. Ben Pirrip Cobalt—you fit in at the table. You fit in my heart.” She clutches his hands and tears drip down his cheeks with an entirely new sentiment. “You fit in this family. I promise you my skin and bones, you do.”
Ben rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
I awaken at her fervor, choked with real emotion. My throat is closed. I wait a second to process, and then with these feelings trembling beneath, I tell my son, “You’re necessary in our lives.”
Ben takes a short breath.
“I love you,” I say without a shadow of a doubt. “We all love you. For your differences, for your similarities, for who you are.”
“We, too, brother,” Eliot says, drawing our attention to the table. Rose and I straighten to a stance, and Ben slips around our legs to see what we see.
All of our children rise. Not only to their feet. They rise to the table, pushing dishes aside, goblets tipping over, but their eyes are only on Ben. Staring down at him, as though he is the only one who matters. He matters above a dish. Above a chair. Above a glass, above themselves.
Charlie is the one who extends his hand. “We, too, love you, Ben.”
Rose is a fortress of love and loyalty, her yellow-green eyes glassed at the sight of our future that’s no longer future.
It is present moment.