Three Rules on the Fridge
The following days were quiet in that strange, addictive way peace can be. Sarah and I wrote three rules on a whiteboard above the fridge:
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No one makes Noah small.
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No one makes Dad small.
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No one makes Mom small.
Noah added purple stars around his name like he was crowning it.
We went sledding behind the library. He laughed so hard his hat slipped over his eyes. It cost nothing—and felt like everything.
A voicemail came from my mother, cloaked in concern: Stress is dangerous for your father…
I deleted it.
“Maybe Nana forgot by mistake,” Noah said at dinner.
“Maybe,” I said. “But sometimes forgetting is a choice.”
“Next time can I set the table?”
“You can set every table you ever walk into,” I said. “Starting with ours.”
