Page 21 of Cut Off
“Kids still roll out of bed at nine?” Confusion flickers in his eyes.
“Let me tell you about my brother Max.” I cross my arms. “When he was eleven, my parents got him a bunk bed just like this one. Low safety rail.”
Jonah’s eyebrows rise.
“Three nights after they set it up, we hear this massive thud in the middle of the night, followed by the most god-awful wailing you’ve ever heard. Max had rolled right off the top bunk and landed face-first on the hardwood floor.” I wince atthe memory. “Concussion, broken nose, two black eyes. He looked like a tiny prizefighter.”
“Jesus,” Jonah mutters.
“My parents felt so guilty they let him eat ice cream for breakfast for a week. And to this day, my mom still brings it up every Christmas like it happened yesterday.” I pat the death trap bunk bed. “So unless you want a holiday tradition of ‘Remember when Dad bought the bed that almost killed you?’ I suggest we keep looking.”
Jonah stares at it like it’s transformed into a medieval torture device. “No bunk beds. Got it.”
“Smart man.”
“Thank you for telling me that.”
“No problem. That’s what happens when you grow up with three younger siblings—you become an encyclopedia of childhood disasters waiting to happen.” I walk toward a display of sensible twin beds with actual headboards and footboards. “These are more age-appropriate, anyway.”
Jonah follows, running his hand along a solid wood bed frame. “So what time do kids go to bed? Nine-year-olds, I mean.”
“Depends on the kid, but usually around eight-thirty or nine. Earlier if they’ve had a rough day, later if they’ve been napping or it’s a special occasion.”
“What do I do about nightmares?”
The questions keep coming as we move through the furniture section, picking out a twin bed, a desk that will “grow with him,” and a dresser that doesn’t look like it belongs in a nursery. I answer each question the best I can.
“How do you actually get a kid moving in the morning?” he asks.
“Routine. Kids thrive on routine. Shower, dress, breakfast, teeth, backpack, go. Same order every day.” I tick off eachstep on my fingers. “And for the love of God, have everything ready the night before. Clothes laid out, lunch packed, backpack by the door. Morning-you will thank night-you.”
Jonah pulls out his phone and starts typing notes, which is both adorable and concerning. I’ve never seen him this focused outside of a hockey game.
“This is... really helpful.” He glances up from his phone. “You know everything.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “The oldest of four, two brothers and a sister. My parents worked and volunteered a lot. Someone had to keep the ship running.”
“You’re good at it.”
We move to the accessories section, picking out bedding, navy blue with stars, a reading lamp, and a bulletin board for Eli. Then we debate the merits of a desk organizer. Me: yes, absolutely necessary; Jonah: can’t he just toss stuff in drawers?
Then Jonah grows quiet.
“What do you do when they hate you?” His voice goes low.
The question stops me cold. I turn to find him staring at a display of family photos, his expression raw.
“Jonah...” I pause, searching for the right words. This isn’t about nightlight preferences or homework schedules.
“He hates me,” he says, still staring at the happy families in the stock photos. “And I can’t blame him. I wasn’t there for nine years.”
“Not by choice,” I remind him.
“Doesn’t matter to him. Result’s the same.” He finally turns to me, and the lost look in his eyes makes my chest ache. “So what do I do?”
I wish I had some parenting hack that could instantly repair the damage, but there’s no shortcut for that kind of hurt.
“All I know is this: you show up. Every day. You’re consistent. You’re patient. Even when it’s hard—especiallywhen it’s hard—you keep showing him you’re not going anywhere.”
