Years passed.
And not too long after, I became “Papa B” to Ellie’s two little ones — bright-eyed, giggling whirlwinds who crashed into my house like sunshine on a rainy day. They called me that before they could even say “banana” properly, and the name stuck.
Somehow, it made me feel younger — like the world had folded back on itself and given me another chance to love with both hands.
My living room filled with plastic dinosaurs, crayons, glitter glue, and joyful noise. I showed them how to draw spiders — just like the one I’d clipped to their mother’s shoulder that Halloween long ago.
They squealed with delight and complained if my drawings weren’t scary enough.
“Not scary enough!” Luke once shouted, and I’d pretend to look horrified, scribbling bigger eyes or curlier legs until they were satisfied.
One afternoon, as we colored on paper spread across the floor, Ellie peeked in from the kitchen.
“Don’t forget the red marker, Dad,” she said, smiling.
“Wouldn’t dare,” I replied.
“Same man, same magic,” she said warmly. “Dinner’s in ten — chicken soup and garlic bread.”
When the house is quiet again — after little shoes are by the door and backpacks zipped — I sometimes stand by the window, mug in hand, watching the evening settle over the neighborhood.
And I remember.
The gray pants. The white T-shirt. The chant. Her tiny shoulders shaking by the bleachers. The supply closet. The toilet paper, the red ink, and that little plastic spider.
