"Wait. Wait. Can you say that again?"
I'm in the kitchen, and my youngest who is eight is next to me saying something about turtles and the beach.
A piece of me is replaying a past conversation with someone else as I pour some tea.
I recognize another piece wants to be in the present and connected to what he's sharing with me.
The most vulnerable thing I could ever do is ask if you'd spend my birthday with me.
Even as I write the words, tears flood my eyes and spill over.
A knot clenches in my gut, and my throat becomes so tight it's almost impossible for me to breathe.
I try to swallow it down, but the icy terror in my heart threatens to heave up and out of my body.
