And when Lucas didn’t feel like talking one evening, he accepted it.

I watched everything.

Not because I trusted him.

Trust wasn’t something he earned simply by finally appearing.

He would have to build it.

Maybe I would too.

Three weeks later, Lucas sat at the kitchen table eating Sunday pancakes.

Too thick, as usual.

“He wants to come to my game Saturday.”

I set down the syrup.

“Do you want him there?”

Lucas nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Then he should come.”

He studied me.

“You won’t be mad?”

“No.”

“He’s still not my dad-dad.”

“You don’t have to decide what to call him.”

Lucas went back to his pancakes.

I reached across the table and straightened his napkin out of habit.

Then I looked at the syrup bottle.

The crumbs.

The plate sitting crooked beside his elbow.

Normally, I would have fixed all of it.