I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.
“Two things,” I said, agreeing.
He sat at the table while I got dinner going.
We made chicken and rice that night, and he measured everything out with great seriousness.
When the refinery called with a small scheduling question, I put it on speaker just long enough to answer and then hung up.
Finn looked at the clock, surprised the call had been so quick.
“That can wait until tomorrow,” I told him.