I teased him about all three things.
When rain began tapping against the Seattle windows, I looked across the kitchen and remembered the morning Melanie pointed toward my front door while my son hid behind a newspaper.
The memory still hurt.
It no longer ruled the room.
After breakfast, Travis noticed the worn black notebook on the counter. Beside it was the newer one he had started when he moved out. He opened neither.
“Still keeping records?” he asked.
“Always.”
He smiled. “Dad would approve.”
“Yes, he would.”
Before leaving, he paused at the front door.
“Thanks for breakfast, Mom.”
“You cooked it.”
“I know.” He smiled wider. “That’s why I’m thanking you for letting me use the kitchen.”
I watched him walk into the rain.
Then I returned to the table, opened my notebook, and added one final entry beneath a list of things I had bought for myself that month.
Breakfast with my son — cost: nothing.
Worth keeping.
