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Henry deserves a proper bedroom, and a place to calm his own. It's something Rebecca has been thinking about since Henry's last visit. It was the first time since Ted had moved in with her that he had Henry with him.
The boy came into her home, all laughter and smiles; muddy trainers were left in the front hall. Rebecca welcomed him with open arms and an open heart, and a tour of the house quickly resulted in a round of sock-sliding down the upstairs corridor.
The sound of Henry's excited footfalls, pounding the hardwood as he did a little run to gain momentum filled her with an indescribable glee. Now she counts the days until his return.
Instantly, the little boy had warmed her home it felt so right having him light up every room he walked into.
Ted was pulling up the duvet around Henry's shoulders, Rebecca leaning in the doorway, noting with fondness that Henry looked so little where he was snuggled down in the middle of the king-sized bed.
Henry said, “This feels like being in a hotel room!”
He had laughed when he said it, a level of thrill included in the sentiment, it had been far from a complaint. All the same, it broke her heart. She wanted her house to feel like a home for him, not a temporary space.
“Well just so long as you ain’t treating it like one. I don’t want any missing lampshades, broken televisions, or beer bottles during your stay mister. There are some messes only Joe Walsh and John Belushi can get away with making,” Ted joked.
Henry answered with laughter in his words, “I don't drink beer, Dad!”
His joy is infectious, and the smile on her face was just as real as the swirl of guilt in the pit of her stomach.
Curled up in bed, she hadn't been able to wipe the smile off her face, nor could she shake the sorry feeling from her bones.
Her guest rooms are all lovely, but painted neutral tones; displaying different art; and filled with plush beddings and throw pillows galore. Luxe, and comfortable. But, none of them were set up for a ten-year-old boy.
It feels like something she should've considered. She should've made sure he had a space of his own, and she told herself so every night as he clambered into the gigantic bed.
She tried to make it better while he was still in town, making sure he had all the Lego sets he could ask for; encouraging him to hang up all the football posters he wanted; changing out the duvet cover from beige to a baby blue that brightened the space. But, it never felt like enough.
Henry's last visit had only been two weeks during a school break. When he comes to London next it'll be for the whole summer. It's a dream come true. An opportunity that makes everyone happy. Rebecca will be damned if Henry doesn't have a room of his own.
It's become something of an obsession. The coffee table at home is covered in interior decor magazines and swatches of fabrics, wallpapers, and paint chips. At work, she keeps several tabs open on her browser scrolling through Pinterest inspiration, and department store catalogues when she gets a break between emails.
Henry is happy to let her know what colours he likes, and what all his hobbies are during his nightly FaceTime calls. Ted does his best to fill in the gaps, providing lists of the boy’s favourite books, and a reminder that he's always asked for a giant beanbag chair.
Sassy tells her she’s nesting. It sounds silly. Henry isn’t a baby; this isn’t a nursery. Still, the sentiment lingers, rattling around Rebecca’s head as she spends her days off painting, and her evenings after work hanging drapes, and assembling furniture. Ted offers to help, of course, but she politely declines, this is something she needs to do herself, she thinks. Understanding as always, Ted delivers warm cups of tea periodically; and helps lift and shift the assembled bed frame, and bookshelves into place. He gently coaxes her out of the room long enough to eat dinner, and to bed at the end of the night.
“You alright, honey?” Ted asks.
It’s half past two in the morning. She can't sleep. She hasn't been able to in weeks, and it's no surprise that Ted has taken notice, though the prompt for her to share her feelings is gentle, she knows he won't pry if she says she's okay, and he'll listen if she chooses honesty.
“I just want Henry to like his room,” it feels so silly saying it out loud, but it's the truth that grips her heart in a vice.
“He’s never been a picky kid. He loved staying here already. Heck, it’s all he talked about for weeks!” Ted promises, “And with all the time and love you’ve put into that room I can’t imagine any kid not being as happy as a day is long”.
There’s no need to hide her smile at the reassurance, nodding her agreement against his shoulder.
Ted’s optimism does little to slow her racing thoughts, or shorten the laundry list of things to be done before Henry’s arrival. Sleep continues to evade her. And when Ted’s breathing evens out, she slips out of bed, padding down the hallway.
She straightens the bed linens, and fluffs throw pillows. She unpacks a box of books, sorting the titles by the colour of their spines, an adorable rainbow of literature slowly filling the shelves that line the far wall. A golden brown teddy bear is settled into the bean bag chair in the reading nook.
There’s little left she can accomplish in the middle of the night, or without Henry’s input, so she allows herself the moment to settle into the flocculent window seat. Outside is dark as anything, but the room remains cast in a sunny-coloured glow. The modern ceiling lamp proves to be a good choice, she’s pleased to say. Enough light to bathe the room, but not bright enough to overwhelm.
Cozy. Comfy. For the first time in months, Rebecca feels herself begin to relax. Her shoulders slump, lax without tension. She tries to imagine Henry’s reaction; to picture him curled up with one of his Goosebumps novels, or one of his comic books. She can see Ted tucking the boy in for the night, their eyes tracing the tiny, dotted stars painted on the navy blue ceiling. She feels content with what she’s accomplished. A maternal pride eases its way into her system. Finally, the room feels ready for their little boy.
Ted wakes her with a tender hand on her shoulder, and a kiss to the crown of her head.
“Rebecca, sweetheart,” he whispers, her eyes fluttering as she rouses to a state of semi-consciousness. It’s enough for him to bring her back to bed, letting her settle into a more comfortable position.
“Our boy is coming home tomorrow,” She says, muffled against her pillow, as she melts into Ted’s warmth.
“I can’t wait, darling,” he’s overflowing with adoration for the woman next to him. Shaming anyone who ever made her feel like her heart wasn’t big enough to fit the whole world in. The gentle giver; who has, not only accepted, but adopted his son into her life.
He struggles to imagine a universe where Rebecca would ever let Henry want for anything. Never has he had any doubt in her ability to fill a new and important space in Henry’s life, but, he’s watched her waiver in her own confidence. Hesitant to accept the title of step-mom, or step-mum in her English; the fear of not being enough swallowing her up from the inside. He can only hope her seemingly tranquil state is an indicator of a shift in the tide.
Ted prays that she manages to allow herself to feel excited, and not just afraid.
Their boy is coming home tomorrow.