He ate dinner beside Emma's bed.
He did homework in the chair by the window.
He read books to her.
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Sometimes he fell asleep with his head resting beside her arm.
He asked to sleep there almost every night.
And he'd done it more times than he should have.
My mother and I had started talking about it quietly.
He needed to be home.
He needed to be a kid for an hour a day.
He needed to sleep in his own bed.
So that Saturday, I sat down next to him.
He was bent over a superhero comic, his sneakers barely reaching the floor.
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Noah was a Marvel kid. He knew all of it. Every character. Every storyline. Every impossible resurrection and alternate universe.
I tried to speak his language.
"Buddy. Listen. I know you're Mom's protector. But even superheroes have to go home and rest, or they can't protect anybody. Let's go home tonight."
