Read Bridge To Happiness for Free Online
Authors: Jill Barnett
right? What time is it?” He glanced at the clock, turned and faced her. “You laugh at me, Sunshine, but wait and see. This kid’s going to be Nobel Prize material.”
Months and months later, when their wonderful son Phillip finally spoke something other than baby gibberish (much later than Scott since Scott spoke for him most of the time, a fact that drove Mike crazy) Phillip’s first word was ‘Mama.’
For two long and wickedly hilarious months he called Mike ‘Mama.’ To March, the only way it would have been even funnier was if the baby had called Mike ‘ mamacita .’
Eventually, from their Nobel prodigy came his second word: “shit.” His first sentence? “You idiot,” which he shouted after March had honked the car horn and waved at a neighbor. Yes, Mike had educated Phillip. Their Pavlovian child had learned from his father that whenever you honked the horn, you had to holler out you idiot!
Mike had always made his skiboards in his parents’ garage. At March’s insistence, he’d applied for a patent not long after that winter so long ago, when he’d first taken her skiboarding and long before they ever got married. But with marriage and family and work, he hadn’t made a skiboard in too long for him to remember.
After Phillip was born, Mike went over to his folks place one day to find his dad had put all of his board materials and equipment into the shed because “Son, you have more responsibility now. You aren’t a teenager anymore.”
No one argued with Don Cantrell, so whenever March asked Mike about his boards, he blew her off with some lie.
He came home from the job he hated one night, stepping over baby toys into an apartment that smelled like spaghetti sauce and baby powder. He tossed his tie and sport coat on the sofa in the living room and headed for the kitchen.
March met him with an icy beer in one hand, waving a letter from the Department of Commerce in the other. “We have something to celebrate. The patent came through.”
He took a sip of the beer, sat down and read the letter with mixed emotions.
“I have more news. I weaned Phillip early and took a job today.”
That got his attention. He set down the beer. “Why? I make good money. You don’t need to work.”
“Yes. I need to work, not only for me. For you, Mike.”
“You don’t have to work for me. I thought we decided that we didn’t want to farm out the kids.”
“We don’t have to. I can work from home. Dave Williamson, you remember him from when I was in still at the Art Institute? He called last week. Would you believe he’s with the biggest ad agency on the city? Stone-Morgan and they want me to do some of their graphics. Most of the time, I can work from home, but they have day care onsite—the company’s run by a woman—so when I have to go to the office, it won’t be a problem. The pay is less than you make, but it comes with full benefits and it’s enough for us to get by.”
She knelt down in front of him and put her hands on his knees. “Quit your job. You hate what you’re doing. I don’t want it sapping all the joy from you. It kills me to see you give up on the skiboards . I know you have, by the way. I can’t get you to talk about them. You’re trying to hide it. What you can’t hide is that giving up your dreams is slowly killing you.”
“I talked to your mom. She told me your dad packed up all your boards and tools months and months back. You never told me, Mike. You’re supposed to talk to me. You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Dad was right. Chasing after some dream doesn’t make practical sense with the boys.”
“It makes more sense with the boys. It’s their future. The pregnancies, the marriage and babies, all of it got in the way of what we wanted. The kids are gifts. They are certainly not a reason to turn our lives into our parents’ lives.” She gave a short laugh. “It’s not just you who is changing.” She lowered her
Months and months later, when their wonderful son Phillip finally spoke something other than baby gibberish (much later than Scott since Scott spoke for him most of the time, a fact that drove Mike crazy) Phillip’s first word was ‘Mama.’
For two long and wickedly hilarious months he called Mike ‘Mama.’ To March, the only way it would have been even funnier was if the baby had called Mike ‘ mamacita .’
Eventually, from their Nobel prodigy came his second word: “shit.” His first sentence? “You idiot,” which he shouted after March had honked the car horn and waved at a neighbor. Yes, Mike had educated Phillip. Their Pavlovian child had learned from his father that whenever you honked the horn, you had to holler out you idiot!
Mike had always made his skiboards in his parents’ garage. At March’s insistence, he’d applied for a patent not long after that winter so long ago, when he’d first taken her skiboarding and long before they ever got married. But with marriage and family and work, he hadn’t made a skiboard in too long for him to remember.
After Phillip was born, Mike went over to his folks place one day to find his dad had put all of his board materials and equipment into the shed because “Son, you have more responsibility now. You aren’t a teenager anymore.”
No one argued with Don Cantrell, so whenever March asked Mike about his boards, he blew her off with some lie.
He came home from the job he hated one night, stepping over baby toys into an apartment that smelled like spaghetti sauce and baby powder. He tossed his tie and sport coat on the sofa in the living room and headed for the kitchen.
March met him with an icy beer in one hand, waving a letter from the Department of Commerce in the other. “We have something to celebrate. The patent came through.”
He took a sip of the beer, sat down and read the letter with mixed emotions.
“I have more news. I weaned Phillip early and took a job today.”
That got his attention. He set down the beer. “Why? I make good money. You don’t need to work.”
“Yes. I need to work, not only for me. For you, Mike.”
“You don’t have to work for me. I thought we decided that we didn’t want to farm out the kids.”
“We don’t have to. I can work from home. Dave Williamson, you remember him from when I was in still at the Art Institute? He called last week. Would you believe he’s with the biggest ad agency on the city? Stone-Morgan and they want me to do some of their graphics. Most of the time, I can work from home, but they have day care onsite—the company’s run by a woman—so when I have to go to the office, it won’t be a problem. The pay is less than you make, but it comes with full benefits and it’s enough for us to get by.”
She knelt down in front of him and put her hands on his knees. “Quit your job. You hate what you’re doing. I don’t want it sapping all the joy from you. It kills me to see you give up on the skiboards . I know you have, by the way. I can’t get you to talk about them. You’re trying to hide it. What you can’t hide is that giving up your dreams is slowly killing you.”
“I talked to your mom. She told me your dad packed up all your boards and tools months and months back. You never told me, Mike. You’re supposed to talk to me. You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Dad was right. Chasing after some dream doesn’t make practical sense with the boys.”
“It makes more sense with the boys. It’s their future. The pregnancies, the marriage and babies, all of it got in the way of what we wanted. The kids are gifts. They are certainly not a reason to turn our lives into our parents’ lives.” She gave a short laugh. “It’s not just you who is changing.” She lowered her