Chapter 7 - The Rocket Ship in the Backyard
-7-
The winter sun cut through the kitchen window, casting a warm, golden beam across the polished granite island where the stolen documents of my past lay scattered. I looked down at Noah, who stood in the doorway with his friend Jimmy, both of them holding plastic pieces of a dismantled model rocket ship. The sight of him—living, breathing, and completely unaware of the monstrous conspiracy that had tried to erase me before he could even form a sentence—sent a violent surge of protective instinct through my chest.
“I’m not having pancakes right now, buddy,” I managed to say, forcing a calm, reassuring smile to my face, “but I am pretty good at building rocket ships. Do you guys need help with the nose cone?”
Noah’s eyes lit up with unadulterated childish enthusiasm. He looked at Claire for approval, his small brow furrowing slightly as he waited to see how the adults would handle the sudden presence of a stranger in their kitchen.
Claire swallowed hard, wiping the last traces of tears from her cheeks, and offered a small, strained nod. “Go ahead, Noah. Take your friend to the back patio. Mr. Daniel can help you out there.”
“Yay!” Noah cheered, grabbing Jimmy’s arm as they both scurried toward the back door, letting out excited yelps of triumph.
The heavy kitchen door clicked shut behind them, leaving Claire and me alone once again with the Manila folder of forged documents and intercepted letters.
“You’re moving fast,” Claire noted quietly, watching through the window as I stepped out onto the patio to join the boys.
“I’ve lost seven years, Claire,” I said, turning back to face her from the doorway. “I don't have another minute to waste standing on the sidelines.”
For the next two hours, sitting on the cold concrete of the backyard patio surrounded by plastic fins, stickers, and glue tubes, I became part of Noah’s world. At first, he kept his distance, watching me with that suspicious, calculating scowl that belonged entirely to my side of the family. But as I showed him how to balance the aerodynamic fins using a simple centering ring—a trick my own father had taught me when I was his age—his guard melted away.
“How did you know that?” Noah asked, holding up the plastic fuselage with wide eyes.
“My dad taught me when I was about your age,” I said, the words slipping out naturally before I could filter them.
Noah paused, tilting his head. “Where is your dad?”
The question hung in the cold air, sharp and unvarnished.
Before I could stumble over an explanation, Claire stepped out onto the back patio carrying a tray of hot cocoa in paper cups, her boots crunching softly against the thin layer of frost.
“His grandpa passed away a long time ago, Noah,” Claire intervened smoothly, stepping in to shield me from a conversation we weren't ready to have yet. She handed a cup to Jimmy and another to Noah, before pausing in front of me with the third cup.
“Thanks,” I murmured, taking the paper cup from her hand, our fingers brushing briefly against each other. The simple touch sent a sudden, electric jolt up my arm—a reminder of the intimacy we had once shared before my mother’s poison tore us apart.
By 1:00 PM, Jimmy’s mother arrived to pick him up, and the backyard suddenly grew quiet.
Noah sat on the grass inspecting his newly assembled model rocket, gently running his fingers over the painted decals. I stood a few feet away, leaning against the wooden railing of the patio, while Claire stood by the back door watching us with an expression that was impossible to read.
“Can we launch it, Mom?” Noah asked, looking up with pleading eyes. “Can we launch it in the park?”
Claire looked at me, a silent question passing between us. She saw the eagerness in my eyes, the desperate need to participate in a normal, domestic moment with my son.
“We can go to the park,” Claire said finally, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Provided Mr. Daniel promises to help you chase it if it gets stuck in a tree.”
“Deal!” Noah cheered, leaping to his feet and running toward the back door to grab his winter coat.
The walk to the community park was cold, crisp, and filled with the sound of Noah’s nonstop chatter about space travel, rockets, and the new video game he had received for Christmas. I walked beside him, listening to every word, committing the cadence of his voice to memory. Whenever he stumbled over a snowbank, I instinctively reached out to steady his arm, feeling the solid, real warmth of his small body against my hand.
As we reached the clearing near the municipal baseball diamond, Noah prepped the rocket on its small plastic launch pad, carefully inserting the engine fuse while I helped him align the launch rod.
“Are you ready, kiddo?” I asked, crouching down beside him.
“Ready!” Noah shouted, clutching the electronic launch controller in his small hands.
“Three... Two... One... Launch!”
Whoosh!
The model rocket shot upward into the pale winter sky trailing a thin line of white smoke, roaring like a tiny jet engine before reaching its peak and deploying its orange parachute.
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Noah jumped up and down, clapping his hands together with pure, unadulterated joy. “We did it! Did you see that, Mom? It went all the way to the clouds!”
I looked up from the rocket to see Claire standing near the snowbank, watching us with a soft, melancholic smile playing across her lips. For the first time in seven years, the wall between us hadn't just cracked—it had begun to crumble.
