His eyes flicked to the table, then back to us, and I could almost see the panic he was trying to swallow. My chest tightened.
"and before you ask," I added gently, "your grandparents took Lola and Alice out for ice cream. They actually insisted, we wanted tonight to be yours."
For a heartbeat, he didn't move. The air felt like it might snap. Then, like he couldn't help himself, Jimmy's gaze dropped to the pencils again. His shoulders twitched, and he sat down, trying to look casual but failing just a little. "So... what do we draw?"
"You get to pick," Thomas offered, voice softer than I'd heard it in weeks.
Jimmy hesitated, the suspicion still there but thinning around the edges, replaced by something almost shy. "Okay," he mumbled. "Um... that mug."
He pointed to the chipped old mug with the little fox painted near the rim, and I nearly laughed, of all the things, that sweet, silly mug. Thomas and I exchanged a glance that held so many things, relief, love, guilt, hope, and then we picked up our pencils.
For a while, the kitchen was filled only with the scratch of graphite on paper, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the soft sounds of us breathing near each other.  For a second, his expression didn't change, but then I saw it: a tiny shift around his mouth, the way his shoulders dropped, the almost-hidden spark in his eyes that he couldn't quite smother. Teenage boys are masters of indifference, but even they can't hide everything.
I'm okayish at sketching—nothing impressive, just doodles that at least look like the thing I'm trying to draw. Thomas, though... bless him. His artistic range starts and ends with heroic stick figures that look as if they desperately want to be erased and set free.
At first, I tried not to watch him struggle with the pencil. Just quick side glances, biting my lip to keep from smiling, then looking back at shading the curve of the mug. But Jimmy was doing the same, pretending to be absorbed in his own sketch while very obviously keeping one eye on his father's masterpiece-in-distress. I caught the corners of Jimmy's mouth twitching like he was fighting back a grin.
Thomas frowned at his paper like it had personally offended him. He turned it slightly, then back again, squinting as though maybe the drawing might improve if seen from a different angle. He erased something, drew it again, erased it once more, then let out a sigh so dramatic it almost deserved its own soundtrack.
Finally, with the tragic resignation of a man announcing bad news to a kingdom, he set his pencil down and cleared his throat. "I don't think... it's good," he said gravely.
For one perfect heartbeat, we all tried to keep our faces straight. And then Jimmy cracked first—a quick, surprised bark of laughter that set everything off. I followed, helpless, my shoulders shaking so hard I nearly smudged my drawing. It wasn't the thin, polite laughter I'd been used to these past months, but the real, messy kind that spilled out and made my eyes sting a little.
Even Thomas couldn't keep his serious face; he ducked his head, shoulders trembling with silent laughter, eyes softer and brighter than they'd been in ages. "I warned you both," he managed between chuckles, still trying to sound dignified and failing spectacularly.
Jimmy, trying to catch his breath, wiped at his eyes and teased, "Dad, is that supposed to be the mug, or... like... an alien?"
Thomas peered at his own sketch and deadpanned, "It's... abstract."
"Oh, so modern art," I teased, wiping laughter tears from under my lashes. "Very sophisticated."
He leaned back in his chair, surrendering completely. "I was going for 'fox mug,' but apparently, I've invented a new species instead."