"Hey, Mom? Mom! Where's my project? Mom!"

"You have to give me more than two seconds to answer, sweetie," I say, coming down the steps. Garrett, my son the neat freak, is in spaz mode because the kitchen table is covered by my spreadsheets. Last night he finished his diorama (a miniature habitat of Alaskan wolves made out of clay, spray snow, and as many twigs as he could find in our back yard) and left it in the middle of the table. Garrett even covered it in plastic wrap so our cat, Felix, wouldn't mess with it.

"Where is it?" His eyes are practically bugging out of his head. I point to the top of the refrigerator and his shoulders instantly relax. "Oh, thank God," he says.

"Dramatic much?"

"Mom."

"Sorry. Did you honestly think I'd let anything happen to it, Professor?"

"No, but…"

"But nothing." I pull the diorama off the top of the fridge and hand it to him. He's ten, average height for his age but can't reach too far above the freezer just yet. "It's beautiful, you know? Fantastic job on the details."

"Thanks. Did you see the stripe I added to this one's back? Technically, it's not an exact replica of the gray wolf that lives in the arctic tundra, but I thought it added character. I don't think Mrs. Clearwater will mind, though. I mean, the model is to scale." And this is how my son earned the nickname Professor.

"Oh, yeah. Good call, Professor." He's so proud and I can't help but beam right along with him. The diorama really is quite impressive. Glancing at the clock, I give him a nudge. "It's getting late. Hurry up and fix your PB and J before you miss the bus…again."

I watch Garrett spread peanut butter—creamy, never chunky—on the bread then slather grape jelly on top and wonder how his dad could walk away from him. Me? Sure, my marriage to Sam was a mistake and we both knew it about six months after we'd said "I do." But Garrett? Garrett's perfect. Part of me feels sorry for Sam because he has no idea what he's missing. The other part, well, not so much.

Ten minutes later, Garrett runs out the door to catch the bus, his wolf project cradled carefully yet securely in his arms. I'd barely gotten a goodbye kiss on the cheek from him. My sweet boy is going to be too big too soon to give me hugs much less a kiss on the cheek, so I'll take all I can get now.

Before I get weepy about it, my phone buzzes with a text.

Danger, Will Robinson. Carmen's on the warpath. ~Edward