I don’t know that I’ve read a story by Rinkema that I didn’t love. This one is short and still broke my heart at least three times.

On our way to the water park the morning after his eighth birthday, my son Kyle gives us roles.

“I’ll pretend to be a boy called Jesse,” he says from the backseat. “And you pretend you’re not my mother.”

I cough to hide the sound that escapes my chest. I want today to be easy, for there not to be fighting. He’s always so mad. My mother blames the divorce, which means she blames me.