“And if something is wrong?”
Toby shrugged. “Then you worry more, Mom.”
He said it like he was explaining why you close the refrigerator after getting milk. Simple cause and effect.
“What if you don’t look happy?”
And suddenly I understood why those ridiculous pictures had always worked so well on me.
Toby wasn’t only showing me he was okay.
He had figured out which version of himself made me okay.
“Do you think you have to do that?” I asked.
He frowned. “Do what?”
He had figured out which version of himself made me okay.
“Make me feel better.”
Toby looked genuinely confused.
“I just help.”
There it was: helpful, independent, easy.
Every time Toby acted older than eight, I had praised him for it.
***
I sat beside him on the floor.
“Travel Dad doesn’t talk, right?”
Every time Toby acted older than eight, I had praised him for it.
Toby gave me a look.
“He’s towels.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
Toby smiled too.
“Okay. Fair. What does Travel Dad do?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“He sits there.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I looked downstairs toward the chair again.
“Okay. Fair. What does Travel Dad do?”
My son had not built a replacement father to play catch.
Or tell stories.
Or talk.
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