I Love You, KiddO-wen

4:03 a.m. Seven minutes until doing the only selfish thing Dad ever taught me how to do. Bike riding, shaving, oil changing: all practical. The dead of night departure: the outlier. Selfish in a way, but for the best. Let the heartache cope as a blind alley instead of a yearning pair of disconnected magnets.

Every twenty seconds or so, a single droplet pecks the stainless steel sink. Wafts of homemade Parmesan bread linger from last night’s meal. Never imagined this paltry U-shaped kitchen could be a sanctuary, but tonight as I’ve paced around, my boots have married the ceramic tile. Black-and-white hopscotch. Everyday life remains the stubborn hindrance to our determined renovations list. Still, our young family’s widest grins have sprung within this Dixie-Berryhill ranch. Shame we can’t teleport Dad here, and I have to leave to play caretaker for an open-ended period. I complete another narrow circuit, reaching the soft light below the microwave. My wedding ring twinkles.

I’ll miss Cassidy and the casual attempts for our second. She wants a girl. Keep the “hormones” balanced in the household. Olivia Dawn, she’s already proposed. I’d prefer a boy. Better chance to save money with hand-me-down Halloween costumes and eventual sports equipment. But the thought of saying “catch you later” to another one of my own kids at a moment like this petrifies me. Dad might be gone by the time we succeed. Will our indefinite days apart spark a miracle when I return? After all, we conceived Owen Dutch around Valentine’s Day the year after Mom’s funeral.

Four years since the kiddo’s birthday, and I’ve not spent a single night more than a bedroom away. Curiosity kills cats, but inspires this boy. Fond of roly-polies, glow sticks, and an already-not-so-brand-new 3-wheel kick scooter. After one swift wipeout and an extended sobbing fit, he had enjoyed decorating his arm in bandages—from palm to elbow. Owen’s watercolor family portrait hangs on the fridge, our matching red shirts unified below an almost-circular sun. A painter? Dermatologist? Zookeeper? To appropriately foster a preschooler’s ambitions remains a parental enigma, at least for Cassidy and me.

4:05 a.m. Peppermint taste persists from the bite-sized Red Bird candy I call breakfast. With two cram-packed duffel bags in the entryway, I’ve stalled enough. As I creep through the hallway, a chill follows me—either my reluctance to leave or the actual indoor temperature. Hard to pinpoint the origin. The smart thermostat illuminates within my proximity: 65. Of course, Cassidy’s Syracuse roots tangle well with my Denver ones. Mid-autumn in the Southeast lets us crack the bedroom window at night. Bundle up together. Share enough touching and kissing to quell our goosebumps. Past my slumbering true love, the hallway terminates at our son’s room—the lone nightlight providing an ankle-height beacon to my interim farewell.

My fingers curl around the icy doorknob, and I twist. The release registers softer than a computer mouse click. With the same hand, I push the door panel, as gently as if moving it with my breath. The low, steady rumble of Owen’s brown noise machine strengthens in the stillness. Much like the toddler version of me, the boy prefers to keep the closet light on behind the bifold shutter panels. No monsters here, buddy. Just a father, here to drop off an unrequited goodbye. Leaving on a jet plane.

Beside the bed frame, the cushioned seat invites my dispirited legs to rest. An arch of neatly arranged stuffed animals blankets the headboard. His favorite, Bluey, tucked center stage. Mom’s lifetime Knickerbocker gingerbread man lounges amid the plushy audience. A spectator, at least. If only she could’ve interacted with her grandson, just once. Could’ve taught Owen about ladybugs, the perfect cheddar-and-herb biscuit recipe, and what to do when you wake up unexpectedly alone. Between consultation trips and waterfowl hunts, Dad’s habit of four a.m. escapes meant a muted daybreak for us at home. A solitary love-you-and-see-you-later memo on the kitchen table, the only evidence to inspect. To Miles and My Darling, his coined header. Always in my heart too, Dad.

I reach into my fleece jacket pocket and withdraw my own letter, cradling the folded page like one of Nana’s scrapbook pages. Tilted away from me, Owen’s head rustles but returns inert, only the shallow rise and fall of unsullied breathing. The curly brown hair he inherited from Cassidy screens his otherwise exposed ear. Even while asleep, his cheeks still bulge as if a gobstopper had never dissolved. Possible that we, culpable rookie parents, had stretched the boy’s toddler face from chronic cute aggression. But his smile has grown naturally into it. I’ll miss the precious moments when he giggles atop the backyard swing.

4:07 a.m. Time to unravel my secret words. An empty, twenty-minute drive to the Charlotte airport awaits. Check bags, security, boarding—the whole nine yards, of course. Only a Detroit layover and a nap until setting foot in my birth state before the local public libraries open. Hopefully, Dad’s stable. Could be a one-day trip, for all I know. My hand retracts over my mouth as an involuntary deep exhale vents into the tranquil bedroom. In the dim closet light and with a wistful heart, I unfold the thin page and whisper a gracious until-next-time message to my son.

“Dear Owen,

Pops is sick, so I’m going to Colorado to take care of him.

Mommy can show you on the map where I am.

There will be lots of snow for me to play in.

I’ll build a snowman with a giant carrot nose and call him ‘Olaf.’

And in case he melts, I’ll be sure to put his heart in the freezer for ‘next time.’

Speaking of, the next time I see you, we can go to the park for a full day.

Ice cream on the way home, and I pinky promise to pay extra for the special sprinkles.”

…

“I’ll be gone for a little while.

We have to see how sick Pops is right now and hope he gets better.

But until I get back, you’re the man of the house.

Mommy can do a lot, but please use the most-est kindness when she needs help.

Put your shoes in the cupboard and remember your magic words.

Please listen, really carefully, to Missus Vance at pre-school.

Be good for me, okay?”

…

“I love you, kiddO-wen.

Always in my heart.”