Unsettled

Broken

The sounds of Max playing in his bedroom rebound easily down the hallway to reach your location in Tom's kitchen. Technically it used to be your kitchen, too. That thought brings about the familiar hitching within your chest, the stutter of your heart and clenching of your diaphragm. It's not getting any easier to face the memory of what happened between the pair of you, despite your promise of forgiveness.

Tom is focusing on the screen of his laptop, on the plans the pair of you are finalizing for Max's upcoming birthday. Even still you notice the flinched reaction that he tries to hide by keeping his face turned away. Neither is ever alone in confronting the memory of that day. Sometimes you wish you could protect him from it – and then there are days where you delight in the fact that he suffers, just as you do. Those are not proud moments. You spent so long nursing the spite, anger, and hate as a way to combat the emotion you couldn't smother. Some habits are hard to break. Some days you doubt you ever will.

A long sigh escapes Tom's lips and he leans back in his chair, the wood creaking as he shifts his weight. Simultaneously he pushes the laptop along the surface of the table, scooting the piece of tech away from him. "I can hardly believe he'll be four soon."

Today Tom's method of battling back is focusing on the beautiful little boy that resulted – the beautiful mischievous little boy that you can no longer hear crashing around his room. The quiet makes you nervous. You swivel to glance in the appropriate direction and nod. "Mmmhmm. Speaking of... Do you want to see what he's up to or should I?"

Impishly, Tom grins. It's an expression you've seen cross Max's face a million times. Like father, like son. Tom remains relaxed back in his chair, but tilts his head slightly as he calls out, "Maximilian! Mate – what are you up to in there?"

A thump – the unmistakable sound of your son jumping down from whatever perch he'd climbed up to – precedes the sound of him dashing towards the kitchen. A herd of zebras would make less noise. You prepare yourself for any manner of mischief. Even so, you give a start when Max rounds the corner, appearing in the kitchen doorway holding an object immediately identifiable and tied to a whirlwind of emotion: the canvas painting from his first birthday.

"Max?" Tom forms his son's name as a question.

The matching piece of yours is hidden away in the linen closet. Where had Tom stashed his? Has it been in Max's room all this time and you just haven't noticed it? Surely not. It is hardly surprising that Max has discovered it. Your son excels at hide and seek, one of his many talents.

"I want to paint."

Both you and Tom respond at the same time. Yours is a simple question – Now? – which draws a pouting lip and furrowed brow from your son. Tom's response is more involved, his question stern: "Is that how we ask for things in this house?"

Max dips his chin down, unhappy with the reactions of both his parents. In a blink he reroutes and again you're struck by the similarities of expressions utilized by both father and son. Max has gone into pouting puppy mode. "For my birthday!" He hesitates for a second, shifting his look-how-cute-and-innocent-I-can-be-when-I-want-something look from you to Tom, then adds a belated, "Please?"

You lift your eyebrows at the quick-change in behavior, watching Tom's reaction out of the corner of your eye. He's fixated on his son and the canvas that is held out before him. The plans were set for a dinosaur party, third one in a row. A change from the norm might be nice – but then revisiting this particular theme is a challenge you hadn't anticipated.

Slowly, Tom nods, shifting to reach towards Max. "You're sure, now... No dinosaurs this year? Or are we painting dinosaurs?"

It's a necessary question. The invitations have already been ordered, decorated around the edges with a scene reminiscent of Max's bedroom. Bedrooms, really, though Tom's version made your attempt at the theme seem simplistic. Tom had gone above and beyond what you were able to afford. At the time you'd taken offence at the decadence as though it was meant as another slap to the face. 3D dinosaur effects protruding from the walls? Pterodactyl mobiles hanging from the ceiling? Max had babbled on and on, excitedly describing every detail of his room to you until you felt you'd experienced it firsthand. It was a small victory when a few days after the new room was complete Tom had sent a message asking where you'd gotten the lamp in Max's bedroom at your house. All that extravagant décor – you can FEEL the dinosaurs, Mummy! Raaaaawr!– and still the little DIY lamp had stuck out in your son's mind as a required thing in his room.