It was a good list. And the first thing had been the easiest to keep up with. Two months ago, Sebastian had walked out of Matty’s classroom and called his architecture firm. He was cashing in on the vacation he’d stored up over the last decade. It would be all used up fairly soon, and Sebastian wasn’t completely sure what he was going to do next, but for now, the only thing he was worrying about was Miss DeRosa’s checklist.

It was taped to his fridge. There was a fingerprint of tomato sauce in one corner, scribbled notes to himself all over it, words crossed out and added. It had been a lifeline for him. Guided him more than he ever would have expected.

It was a little cure-all. He wasn’t sure what kinds of things Matty should do after school? The checklist knew.

• Playdates (arrange with other parents at school)
• Children’s museum (if he likes it, invest in a membership)
• The library (Matty can even get his own library card!)
• No more than half an hour of TV each day (anything on Netflix Kids acceptable)

And on and on. It was a single sheet of paper, but, to Sebastian, it was a roadmap that he never planned on deviating from.

Also taped on the fridge? The number for a grief counselor he’d seen for the first time last week. Sebastian’s skin had shrunk two full sizes while he’d sat in the pastel waiting room. If he’d learned one thing from his meeting with Miss DeRosa, it was that he had no desire to be blindsided by another grown-up again. So, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say to Dr. Feldman. Rehearsed it. Like a play.

Feldman had seen through it in about four seconds and Sebastian had left the office with four inches of pamphlets, permission to hire the occasional babysitter, and the distinct feeling that Sebastian Dorner was currently trapped inside someone else’s life.

Matty appeared back in the kitchen in jeans and a Captain America zip-up.

“Mittens can’t be a nonnegotiable,” Sebastian told his son. He chuckled at the immediate outrage that bloomed over Matty’s face. That was new. The chuckling. It was too new to feel good yet. “But how about this? No mittens if it’s more than forty degrees outside. That’s reasonable.”

“What’s the temperature right now?” Matty asked suspiciously.

“Check for yourself.” Sebastian nodded his head toward the window thermometer they kept. He knew Matty could read it. Kid was smart as a whip. “Hey, is Miss DeRosa still checking your lunch?”

“Sometimes. It’s forty-two degrees!” Matty pumped one triumphant fist in the air and had his dad chuckling again.

“All right. Make sure she checks it today.”

Sebastian scrawled a few words onto a torn piece of paper and tucked it against Matty’s juice box.

That night, when Sebastian’s shirt was wet across the chest from Matty’s bath and his son was soundly snoozing in his room, Sebastian unpacked the lunchbox. He found the same crumpled piece of paper he’d sent that morning.