I am alone in the hotel I was supposed to share with you.
I watch the Game of Thrones where the dead chase the living through dark castles. I think about the resentment I had about you not coming when our littlest hurt himself on a trampoline at a birthday party. I reflect on the realization that you would not be coming when, a day later, he slammed his finger in the kitchen door and I took him to the ER.
Our time would be his time. I would not be reunited with you and so reunited with someone who was me years ago, before I was called Dad.
But in the hotel room that is just a room that is not home, I find I am the person I need to be. A parent. Because this what I need to be for a kid who broke an ankle, and smashed a finger.
What I need to be for you. And me.
And this is what I need to be in this moment.
