“Tyler, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A scuba diver.”

“And how about you, Tuck?”

“I want to be a writer.”  (Be still my beating heart.)

“You know what, guys?  I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I got the job.  I’m a writer now.”

“You are??”

“I am.  I really am.”

Tyler was the quiet one this time, his mind spinning already with ideas to add to his mom’s collection.

Tucker smiled from ear to ear. “Mommy, do you know what you could do?  You could, maybe you could, um, maybe you could write some sentences… about us.”

He puts his hand to his chest, just to clarify whom I might like to jot a few sentences about.

“I sure could, kiddo.”

Smile, smile, smile.

“…sometimes, when I’m so happy, the joy spills out of my eyes.”

Tyler reaches across the car, putting his hand on Tucker’s arm.  In a quiet, dreamy voice, he says, “Tuck, our mommy is an offer.”

Tucker’s eyes take a new light, even brighter.

“An author?!  Mommy, you didn’t say that!  You didn’t say you were an author!  I know what authors do – my teacher talks about them everyday!  My mom is an author?!”

“Mommy, are you so happy?” Tyler asks.

“I am so happy.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because sometimes, when I’m so happy, the joy spills out of my eyes.”

“And that’s what’s happening?  You’re spilling?”

“I’m spilling, buddy.”

Holding hands, they look out their separate windows in the backseat.

Tucker says one more time, “My mommy is an author.”

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