We’re Made of Moments by Molly McLain

Lane winks. “You got this, gorgeous.”

I know I do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like any part of it.

When he turns away, I paste on my game face and chink my armor firmly into place, just like I do every other Friday. I also send up a prayer for extra grace this week, because these exchanges seem to be getting harder and harder. I’m not sure why, but I feel the unease creeping in a little more with every swap.

“Mama, come on!” Jett yells again, and I pull in a deep breath. Shoulders back, girlfriend.

I make it halfway down the stairs when my son yanks the front door open and launches himself at the brick wall of a man standing on the other side.

Big arms wrap around our little boy and lift him from the floor, while my lungs hold every ounce of air in my body hostage.

My son adores his father. Of that, I am absolutely certain. And when aquamarine eyes, the exact same color as Jett’s meet mine over the top of our little boy’s head, I realize that no matter how hard I try to prepare myself, this will never get easier.