Too Much Pancake, Too Little Honesty
By the next morning, I had developed a plan.
It was not a good plan.
It involved pancakes, a children’s movie, and enough sugar to make a dentist cry.
“Breakfast in the living room,” I announced.
Ian looked up from his cereal.
His eyes went straight to my hands, then to the sofa, then back to his bowl.
“Is that allowed?”
“Today it is.”
“Because you’re staying home?”
“Because I said you get to choose.”
He stared at me as if I had quietly become a different mother overnight.
Then he nodded. “Can Gray have pancakes too?”
“Gray can have a whole stack.”
I carried the plates into the living room. Ian followed with the stuffed wolf tucked beneath one arm. He placed Gray on the coffee table and pulled out the chair farthest from me.
I moved my chair beside his.
Ian stiffened.
“Too close?” I asked.
He shook his head immediately. “No.”
His voice said yes.
I left the chair where it was, but I didn’t touch him. Instead, I cut his pancakes into little squares and set the syrup within reach.
Ian watched every movement.
When I looked away, he leaned toward my plate.
“You can have some,” I said.
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You were staring at my bacon like it owed you money.”
His mouth twitched.
He took one strip, then glanced at me as if expecting a trap.
I pushed the plate closer. “Take another.”
His fingers moved quickly. “Thank you.”
He ate the bacon and pancakes with astonishing speed. When he finished, he sat straight-backed and perfectly still, as though waiting for permission to breathe.
“More?” I asked.
“No, thank you.”
His stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.
Ian’s cheeks turned pink.
I pressed my lips together. “That sounded like a yes.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
The comment window drifted across the television.
He’s starving, but he won’t ask for more because he’s afraid she’ll think he’s greedy.
He’d eat the whole kitchen if she hand-fed him.
I looked at the half-empty serving dish.
“Clara,” I called. “Could you bring the rest?”
Ian’s head snapped up. “No, Mom. I’m really fine.”
“Then you can keep me company while I eat.”
He hesitated.
I put the serving dish on the table between us. “No touching required.”
That earned me a tiny smile.
He ate three more pancakes.
Then four.
By the time the movie started, he had consumed everything on the tray except the fruit. He curled at the edge of the sofa, one hand resting protectively over his stomach.
“You’re going to explode,” I told him.
“I’m not.”
His stomach rumbled again.
This time, he squeezed his eyes shut.
I reached for the phone. “I’m calling the doctor.”
“No!”
The shout came out so sharp that both of us froze.
Ian immediately lowered his voice. “I mean… you don’t have to.”
“You’re holding your stomach.”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Then let the doctor say so.”
He looked toward Gray.
The stuffed wolf, unsurprisingly, offered no medical advice.
Ian’s lower lip trembled. “If I’m sick, will you send me away?”
The question struck harder than it should have.
“No,” I said. “If you’re sick, I stay.”
He stared at me.
I called our family physician.
Dr. Patel arrived twenty minutes later with his black bag and a smile Ian knew well. Ian answered every question politely, sat through the examination without complaint, and insisted the pain was “not important.”
When Dr. Patel pressed lightly beneath his ribs, Ian folded around himself.
“Indigestion,” the doctor said. “He ate too much too quickly.”
I gave Ian a look.
He studied the carpet.
“Nothing serious,” Dr. Patel continued. “A little water, no more heavy food tonight, and a gentle stomach rub if he’s uncomfortable.”
Ian went rigid.
“A stomach rub?” I repeated.
“If he agrees to it,” Dr. Patel said. “Don’t force him.”
“I won’t.”
The doctor packed his things and left.
Ian stayed curled on the sofa, gripping Gray’s paw so tightly the stuffing creaked.
“Do you want me to sit with you?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Do you want me to rub your stomach?”
His eyes darted to mine, then away.
“I can do it myself.”
“You can.”
Silence stretched between us.
The television played a cheerful song about friendship. Onscreen, a dragon and a wolf hugged dramatically.
Ian looked at them.
Then at me.
“Just for a little while,” he whispered.
I moved slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. He lay down with his head on a pillow, Gray tucked under his chin. I warmed my hands and held them above his shirt.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
He nodded.
I placed one hand against his round stomach.
Ian inhaled so sharply that his chest jerked.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then his pupils flashed silver-blue.
The room seemed to tilt.
Ian’s fingers dug into Gray’s fur. His small body went stiff beneath my hand, every muscle straining against some invisible pull.
I lifted my palm.
The color vanished.
Ian exhaled, trembling. “Did you see?”
The comment window exploded across the television.
His eyes changed!
She touched him and he almost shifted!
He’s trying so hard not to show the ears.
I kept my face calm. “I saw you were uncomfortable.”
Ian searched my expression.
“Only that?”
“Only that.”
He relaxed by a fraction.
I began rubbing gentle circles over his stomach. His breathing slowly evened out. Every few seconds, his lashes fluttered, and he peeked at me as though checking whether I was still there.
I was.
When the pain eased, he caught my wrist.
His grip was surprisingly warm.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you hate anything?”
The question was so unexpected that I paused.
“I hate burnt toast,” I said.
He considered this seriously. “What about wolves?”
My hand stilled.
On my phone, the comment window flickered.
This is it.
Don’t say the wrong thing.
Ian watched me with naked fear.
I forced a small smile. “Wolves are beautiful.”
His fingers loosened around my wrist.
“Even big ones?”
“Especially big ones.”
A tiny smile appeared.
Then thunder shook the windows.
Rain slammed against the glass, sudden and violent. The lights flickered once.
Ian sat upright.
His face drained of color.
“Mom,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked toward the hallway, then toward the bathroom.
The comment window filled with frantic lines.
The storm!
This is the scene!
He’s going to shift!
Ian slid off the sofa, clutching Gray to his chest.
“I need to go wash my hands.”
“You can wait.”
“I can’t.”
He ran toward the bathroom.
A second later, something heavy crashed inside.
“Ian?” I called.
No answer.
I reached the door and grabbed the handle.
From inside came a frightened sob.
Then another sound—low, rough, and unmistakably animal.
The comments on my phone blurred into one pulsing warning.
The ears are out.
I pushed the bathroom door open.
Ian was on the floor, soaked from the rainwater dripping off his clothes, Gray trapped beneath him.
And above his dark hair, two pointed ears had risen into view.
