“But maybe only one wheel.”
Ethan finally smiled.
William could have interrupted.
He could have reminded Maya whose home she was in or asked Mrs.
Collins to take the girl inside and find her guardian.
Instead, he stood among the decorations he had purchased and let a child tell his son the truth more gently than he had managed to do.
Maya closed the pencil box.
“Now answer my question.”
Ethan looked at her.
“What question?”
“What kind of party did you want?”
William started to speak, but Maya lifted one finger without looking at him.
“The birthday boy answers.”
Mrs.
Collins turned her face away, hiding what might have been a smile.
Ethan looked around the garden.
The superhero banners had been chosen by a designer.
The antique plates came from a locked cabinet he was never allowed to touch.
The musicians played songs selected by an event planner.
Even the cake flavor had been William’s decision.
“I wanted to draw,” Ethan said.
Maya nodded as though this were perfectly reasonable.
“And maybe watch the magician make something disappear.
Not a long show.
Just the best trick.”
The magician stepped forward.
“I can do that.”
Ethan looked toward the cake.
“I wanted chocolate.”
William stared at the towering vanilla cake with painted sugar stars.
“You always liked vanilla,” he said.
“When I was six.”
The words were not cruel.
That made them hurt more.
William had planned the party for the son he remembered from before the accident.
He had chosen the things Ethan used to love because those memories belonged to a time when Catherine was still in the house, when footsteps ran down the hallway, and when birthdays did not feel like evidence of everything they had lost.
He had not asked who Ethan was now.
Maya reached into her backpack again and brought out three more sheets of reused paper.
“We can draw first,” she said.
“Then one trick.
Then cake, even if it is the wrong flavor.”
Ethan looked at his father, waiting.
William glanced at the musicians, the staff, the perfect tables, and twenty-eight folded name cards.
Then he removed his jacket and laid it over the back of an empty chair.
“Draw first,” he said.
Maya handed Ethan the blue pencil.
They worked at the edge of the terrace, using a golden chair as a table.
Ethan designed Captain Thunder’s helmet.
Maya drew a villain whose shoelaces had tied themselves together.
The magician knelt beside them and suggested a secret pocket in the hero’s cape.
Lisa brought a wooden board so Ethan could draw more comfortably.
No one lowered their voice.
No one praised Ethan for being brave.
No one asked about therapy.
For twenty minutes, he was simply an eight-year-old arguing about whether a superhero needed a mechanical bird.
William stood several feet away, afraid that if he moved too quickly the moment would vanish.
