When 3 turns into 4

Friday Night – Kitchen, London

The house was quiet.

Lucy had gone to bed early, curled up in Ric's hoodie like it belonged to her now. Ric was upstairs, finishing off the dishes — humming along softly to the song playing on the speaker, half out of tune, all heart.

I was prepping Eli's kit at the kitchen table, checking studs and folding his socks, when I felt him come in.

No sound.

Just presence.

He didn't sit.

Just hovered — arms crossed, eyes on the floor, foot nudging the leg of a chair.

"What's up, baby?" I asked softly.

He shrugged.

"Kit too itchy again?"

He shook his head.

I put the socks down and turned to him fully.

"Is it about tomorrow's game?"

Another nod. Small.

He moved around the table and finally climbed into my lap, face tucked into my shoulder like he did when he was smaller.

I held him there. Waited.

Then he whispered, "Can Ric not come?"

I stilled — just for a second.

Not in shock.

Just in care.

He wasn't being mean.

He wasn't angry.

He was scared.

"Can you tell me why?"

He hesitated. Pulled at the string of my hoodie. "I don't want to hurt his feelings."

My heart cracked.

"You won't," I promised, brushing his hair back. "But I can't help you unless I know what you're feeling."

He sighed — one of those big, brave sighs little kids make when they're trying to be tough.

"I like him," he said. "A lot."

"I know."

"I like when he plays superheroes with me and makes me pancakes and helps me pick worms out of the garden and he always watches my games and makes me feel really cool."

I smiled. "All true."

"But tomorrow..." His voice got smaller. "I don't want everyone to stare again. Last time was bad. Lucy cried. I got mad. People laughed at us. I just want it to be normal."

He looked up at me. Eyes wide, lashes wet.

"And if Ric comes, it won't be. Even if I want him to. It just... won't."

I held him tighter.

Because how do you explain to a six-year-old that protecting your peace doesn't mean loving someone less?

"You want Ric to be there," I said gently, "but you want the world to stop making it about him being there."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah."

I kissed his temple. "That makes sense, Eli. That makes a lot of sense."

He looked up. "But I don't want him to feel sad. Or like I don't want him."

I rested my forehead against his.

"Then let me talk to him. We'll figure it out together, okay?"

"Okay," he whispered.