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looking at her shreds my heart.”
    Papa often said that things shredded his heart. Billy didn’t quite understand what this meant, but Papa used the phrase when he talked about things Billy thought were sappy.
    Billy edged silently away from the garage. He didn’t want to wake Sal, although the country music coming from Papa’s old paint-splattered radio seemed loud enough to mask any noise Billy might make.
    “Do you want a snack?” asked Papa. “I baked cookies earlier.”
    Billy nodded.
    They crossed the yard to the back door, and Billy tried to keep up with Papa, matching him stride for stride, stretching his legs with all his might.
    At the kitchen table, with a plate of Papa’s oatmeal raisin cookies between them, and one cookie already in his belly, Billy asked his question. “Papa,” he said, “can I call you Dad?”

    Papa studied Billy for a moment. “No more Papa?”
    Billy didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to hurt Papa’s feelings. “Well—” he began. “I’m in second grade now. Nobody says Papa .” His voice clouded. “It’s babyish.”
    Papa reached for his beard, tugged on it. “No more Papa.” He made a sad face—a long, droopy, clown face—but Billy knew he was joking.
    “Is it okay?” asked Billy.
    “Of course,” said Papa, smiling. He arched his eyebrows. “Maybe one day you’ll want to be called something else.”
    Billy tilted his head. “Huh?”
    “Maybe one day you’ll want us to call you Bill. Or William.”
    “ No ,” said Billy. “I’m Billy. Promise to always call me Billy.”
    Papa tugged on his beard again. “I promise to always call you what you want to be called.”
    “Billy,” said Billy.
    “Billy,” Papa repeated. Then after a few seconds he said, “Hey, what about Ned? Will he still call me Papa?”
    Billy hadn’t thought about that. “I guess.” He paused. “And Sal’s little. She can still call you Papa.”
    “What about Mama? Will you call her Mom?”
    Billy nodded slowly. “We can tell her together when she comes home from school.”
    They fell silent. Billy chose another cookie and bit into it. He looked at Papa, taking him in. It was strange—Billy wanted to call him Dad, but he still thought of him as Papa.
    Papa broke the silence. “Let’s practice,” he said. “Hi, Billy.”
    Billy hesitated. “Hi—Dad.” His voice was just a thread of itself. Saying the word Dad felt odd.
    “Again,” said Papa. “Hi, Billy.”
    “Hi, Dad.”
    They did it again and again and again, louder and faster, their voices overlapping, getting silly, until they were laughing. Then Papa said, “You’re shredding my heart.” But Billy was still laughing—and he didn’t know how to respond anyway—and so he took a deep breath and just kept laughing.

5
    There. He’d done it. With Papa’s help. And it was no big deal.
    When Mama had come home from work, Billy and Papa had told her that Billy wanted to call her Mom from now on.
    “Really?” she’d said, a trace of sadness in her voice. “Really, truly?”
    Billy and Papa nodded at the same time.
    “I’m Dad,” said Papa.
    Mama put her bag of school things on the floor, sat on a kitchen chair, and pulled Billy to her. She hugged him, and in the most natural way, said, “I guess you’re growing up.”
    “Yup,” he said, squirming away from the hug.
    Done.
    Sal, who was not yet fully emerged from her nap, had shuffled into the kitchen during the middle of the conversation, her eyes still sleepy. She seemed oblivious to what was really happening. She pointed to everybody, one by one. “You’re Billy. You’re Papa. You’re Mama. I’m me.” As if under a spell, Sal grabbed a cookie and climbed onto Mama’s lap, melting into her. Sal’s eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open. Her grip on the cookie loosened.
    “Come with me,” Papa said quietly to Billy. “I want to show you something.” He rescued Sal’s cookie before it dropped to the floor. He snapped it in two