Four

About four o’clock, the bus dropped off the kids and they came clattering through the door. Aidan had a muddy face, as usual, and Ava’s knee was skinned, a schoolyard accident. Both claimed to be starving. Emily cut apple slices and poured milk and set them on the counter. “Go wash your hands,” she admonished. Dutifully, they did, knowing it was pointless to argue with their mother, the doctor. She told such gross stories when she was making a point.

“How were your days?” Emily asked, and was rewarded (or punished, she wasn’t quite sure) by both kids talking, loudly, at once. God bless them, she thought. They were still young enough to trust their mother, to tell her every excruciatingly tiny detail of their lives, and she was grateful for that. Jackie, the girl from the bus accident, like countless others that had passed through Emily Peterson’s emergency department, was a victim of her desire for independence, to grow up too fast. She couldn’t imagine either of her children walking down the street to a friend’s house without an adult, let alone going off to a concert alone.

Being a doctor was definitely a double-edged sword, she reflected often. Doctor’s kids may get good care of their scrapes and bruises, but they are so often over-protected. There is a fine balance between growing up sheltered and growing up neglected and neither situation does a kid any favours. Emily tried to walk the line, but knew, especially as a single parent, she was tending to err on the side of caution. Oh well, she thought. I’ll deal with their naiveté when I’m in a better mental state myself. Until then, I’ll try my hardest to keep them innocent.