It’s the most beautiful day in ages.

We are driving to the testing centre. Again. I take deep breaths as I grip the wheel and tell K to count the geese we see on the way. Game for a distraction, he plays along.

Four and six make ten. Nine on the golf course. An entire flock on the factory lawn. A dozen by the water treatment plant.

The sun is on the lake, and I know a more relaxed, evolved person would enjoy this moment: the sparkling sunlight, the gentle waves, the mild algae smell pouring in through the open windows. The trouble is that I am so rarely in the moment, focused instead on some faraway point on the horizon that hasn’t happened yet, or something from forever in the past, plus to-do lists and the chore wheel and lately, the endless ferrying from one crisis to the next.

I reach for K’s hand as we cross the parking lot. I can’t read his face, not because of the mask he’s wearing, but because something new is in his eyes these days. Something independent and strong and wholly his own.

Inside, a nurse uses tongs to hand us medical-grade masks to replace the ones we’ve worn in. I can’t remember which side goes out, blue or white, and I listen to the patient explanation from the nurse who has likely provided the same explanation a thousand times already that morning. I look down at K. His mask is on correctly, he doesn’t need any help.

A woman with a toddler on her hip cuts in front of us at check-in. I stare at her back and make silent fuming judgements at her bouncy blonde ponytail.

We place our feet on footprints and wait. Another nurse ushers us forward to a chair. I ask K if he wants to sit on my lap. He doesn’t. I tell him I’ll hold his hand. He doesn’t want that, either. I wait for a meltdown. I watch for signs that he’s losing his nerve. But he stares straight ahead, and solemnly nods when the nurse tells him to look up at the ceiling, to check for flying elephants.

He blinks while the nurse counts.

It’s over.

K swipes at a rogue tear and laughs with his new nurse friend about the flying elephants, jumps up and confidently strides over to the bowl of proffered lollipops, choosing one without hesitation.

He doesn’t look at me once.

Back in the car, I babble moronically about how brave he was, how proud I am, what a big boy he’s become. There’s a slow, steady sinking in my chest that I can’t name.

I see the geese in the road, but I don’t think to stop until I’m so close that I have to slam on the brakes. This is a busy, fast road. I didn’t even glance in the rear view before stopping.

“What is it, Mommy? Why’d you stop?”

“Some geese are trying to cross the road.”

They’re standing in the middle of the lane. They crane their necks and take a few lurching steps, but they can’t coordinate as a group and eventually, they give up on crossing and go back to the gravelly shoulder.

I stammer an apology to K, unclear on why I’m sorry.

“I guess I’m a little distracted today,” I say with a shaky laugh. I put the car into first and ease ahead.

“That’s ninety-six, Mommy.”

“What?” We make eye contact in the mirror.

“The geese. There were eight of them. So that makes ninety-six.”

“Oh, right. Wow, that many?”

A car passes, too fast, on the right. I mutter something like shitmotherfuckasshole and exhale. I ask K what he wants for lunch. He doesn’t answer.

I check the mirror and study his face for half a second, then ask him again.

He meets my gaze with a stare that goes right through me, and for a moment, I can see that he has known me for centuries. There is no how or why to his love for his muddle-headed mom; but in a shifting instant, he looks out the window, and we are strangers again, travelling home together.