Tyler sighed with the exhaustion of a man who had just completed a tax audit.
“Because ice cream isn’t an emergency.”
“Good.”
Then Officer Bruce pointed toward the kitchen.
“Now finish making dinner.”
I frowned.
“Sorry?”
He looked at Tyler.
“Your mother said dessert comes after dinner. That rule still applies.”
Tyler’s face dropped.
Officer Bruce continued,
“But I think Tyler called because he doesn’t believe you’re going to eat any afterward.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
For once, I couldn’t think of an excuse.
Officer Bruce turned toward Tyler.
“Dinner first.”
“Okayyy.”
“And police?”
“Not for ice cream.”
“We’re making progress.”
He stepped off the porch.
Before he reached the walkway, Tyler called after him.
“Officer Bruce?”
He turned.
“What happens if she says she isn’t hungry again?”
Tyler was looking directly at me.
And suddenly I realized the difficult conversation had barely begun.
Officer Bruce looked at me before answering.
“I think that part is between the two of you.”
Then he walked back to his cruiser.
Tyler and I stood in the doorway until the car disappeared.
Finally, I looked down at him.
“You called the police on me.”
“Yup.”
“Over ice cream.”
He stared at the floor.
“It sounded like a better idea before he got here.”
I laughed despite myself.
“Go wash your hands.”
At dinner, I served spaghetti onto two plates.
Without thinking, I put the larger portion in front of Tyler.
He immediately pushed it back toward me.
“You take this one.”
I looked at the plates.
I had done it automatically.
“No.”
“But you’re hungry.”
“I am.”
“So take it.”
Instead, I picked up the serving spoon and moved some spaghetti from his plate onto mine.
“How about neither of us automatically gets the smaller portion?”
Tyler considered it.
“Okay.”
We ate.
Halfway through dinner, he watched me take a second piece of garlic bread.
He smiled.
“Don’t make it weird,” I warned.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
After dinner, Tyler ran toward the freezer.
“Walking!”
He slowed dramatically.
I took out the ice cream and placed two bowls on the counter.
I scooped chocolate into his bowl.
Then I started filling mine.
Out of habit, I nearly gave myself half as much.
My hand stopped.
I added another full scoop.
Tyler didn’t say anything.
Somehow, that meant more.
We carried the bowls to the couch.
“You’re eating all of yours?” he asked.
“That’s the plan.”
“Good.”
I pointed my spoon at him.
“You still made a very serious mistake today.”
“I know.”
“If I tell you no dessert before dinner tomorrow?”
“I do not call the police.”
“Excellent.”
He took another bite.
“What about Grandma?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Tyler laughed so hard he nearly dropped his spoon.
Later, while I washed the bowls, I looked at him.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
He climbed onto a kitchen chair.
“If I’m hungry, I’ll stop pretending I’m not.”
“Fine.”
“And you stop trying to solve family disagreements with emergency services.”
“Okay.”
I dried my hands.
There was still a little ice cream left in the carton.
“Save that for Friday,” I said.
Tyler looked inside.
“That’s yours.”
My automatic response was already in my mouth.
You can have it.
But I stopped myself.
“Okay.”
I opened the junk drawer, took out a marker, and wrote across the lid:
MOM.
Tyler held out his hand.
“My turn.”
I passed him the marker.
Underneath my word, in enormous crooked letters, he wrote:
NOT 911.
I stared at it.
“So you remember?” I asked.
Tyler nodded solemnly.
“So we both remember.”
And together, we put the carton back in the freezer.
