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He looked at me then.
And there it was.
The secret fear under all the anger.
Not that Rachel would fail again.
Not only that.
But that Rachel might succeed.
That Emma might love her.
That all Jackson’s sacrifice might somehow become invisible the moment the missing mother returned with cinnamon pancakes and a soft voice.
“Jackson,” I said, “love is not a pie.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“It doesn’t run out because someone else gets a slice.”
He gave a broken little laugh.
“That sounds like something you had on a classroom poster.”
“It probably was.”
Then his laugh turned into tears.
He bent forward, covering his face.
“I gave her everything I had.”
“I know.”
“I gave her years I didn’t even have.”
“I know.”
“What if it’s still not enough?”
I put my arm around his shoulders.
“That child reaches for you in her sleep,” I said. “You are enough. You were enough before anyone else came back. You will be enough after.”
He cried quietly then.
Not like the laundromat.
Not with the desperation of a boy at the end of his rope.
This was different.