Chapter Twenty-Four: Lost in Translation

                                        

                                              

The words hit me square in the chest.
"My baby," I whispered, shaking my head. "He's just a kid."
"I know," Thomas said quietly, finally lifting his eyes to mine. "But it doesn't feel small to him."
I blinked against the sting in my eyes. God—how did we already get here? First heartbreaks? Wasn't he just building Lego castles on the living room rug?
Thomas looked down again, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, his brow furrowed with quiet concern. "We'll help him through it," he said softly. "I've already started making a list of things that might help—books, routines, grounding techniques. I will call a few places. There's a family counselor I know of I think we should see. I want to take him. What do you think?"
I hesitated, arms crossed, the uncertainty heavy in my chest. "I don't know... maybe. I guess we should try talking to him first. Together. Or maybe one by one, see if he opens up that way."
Thomas nodded slowly, processing. "Yeah. Maybe one by one is better. He might feel less... cornered...Okay then... I guess I should get going."
"By the way," I said, "I found some little carnets—notebooks—you left in your office. Maybe you need them for your apartment." I went back inside the house, and came back carrying the small stack. Worn covers, corners bent, pages soft from being handled too much. I thought they were just old work notes, half-abandoned to clutter.
He glanced at them, then back at me, unreadable. "You can open them."
I froze, halfway handing them over. "No, they're yours. They're private."
His voice was steady, but something about it landed softer than usual. "It's okay. Open them."
I hesitated for a beat, then sat down and peeled one open, expecting grocery lists, meetings, receipts from the hardware store—but what I found was something else entirely.
Pages filled with neat, scribbled lists. Receipts folded into the covers. Dates. Tiny reminders:

January 18 – Find the magnesium glycinate supplement her doctor mentioned might help with her migraines. 
February 2 – Order the lemon verbena tea from that specialty shop online—the one she only drinks when she's sick and swears nothing else works.
March 12 – Ask the mechanic to recheck her brakes before her spring family road trip.
June 8 – Pick up the hand lotion she loved at the artisan market last month—the lavender and bergamot one. She's running low. It reminds her of her grandmother's house.
July 25 – Order more jojoba oil, sandalwood, and rose absolute. She is running out of those.
September 3 – Service her car and change the tires before the weather shifts. 
October 9 – Buy the blue scarf she kept glancing at from that boutique on Rue Bernard. She passed it three times in September and said it was "too expensive." It isn't.
December 4 – Restock her favorite lemon tea and magnesium supplements before the holidays—just in case the migraines return with the cold.

Just page after page of the ways he'd tried to make my life softer. Safer. Things I'd never noticed, or maybe thought were just life going smoothly by accident. Like comfort was just supposed to happen. Like groceries refilled themselves, tea showed up in the cupboard by magic, tires stayed firm, migraines eased with luck.