Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 29
Three Years Old

"Big day tomorrow!" Shannon said over dinner the night before. "My baby is turning three!"

Ash looked up from his chicken nuggets. Three. He'd been Noam for almost a year now—eleven months since the procedure. Eleven months of being a toddler, of T-ball and swimming and playdates and family dinners.

Eleven months that felt like both forever and no time at all.

"We're having a party," Patrick said. "Just family and a few of your friends. Emma's coming, and Marcus. Maybe a couple kids from T-ball."

A birthday party. For Noam. Celebrating three years of a life he'd only lived eleven months of.

"I don't want a party."

"Honey, everyone has birthday parties at three." Shannon wiped his face with a napkin. "It'll be fun! We're doing a baseball theme since you love T-ball so much. And I'm making a special cake."

"What if I don't want a baseball party?"

Shannon and Patrick exchanged one of their looks. The ones that said they were deciding how much to push, how much to let go.

"What would you want instead?" Patrick asked carefully.

Ash thought about it. What did he want? Not a party at all, really. Not a celebration of being three when he was twenty-five. Not—

"Art," he heard himself say. "I want an art party. With painting and stuff."

Shannon's face softened. "An art party. We can do that. We can absolutely do that."

"Really?"

"Really." She smiled. "You can paint and create with your friends. We'll set up the easel and have lots of supplies. How does that sound?"

It sounded better than baseball, at least. More him—more Ash, even if the party was for Noam.

"Okay," Ash said.

His actual birthday was on a Wednesday. Shannon woke him with "Happy Birthday" sung softly, already holding a small wrapped present.

"You can open one now, before breakfast. The rest at the party on Saturday."

Inside was a set of good quality art supplies—real markers, not just the washable toddler ones. Colored pencils. A sketchbook with thick paper.

"I know you've been wanting better materials for your easel," Shannon said. "These are special birthday supplies. For my three-year-old artist."

Three years old. The words felt surreal.

At breakfast, there were chocolate chip pancakes—his favorite. Patrick came down before work to ruffle his hair and say happy birthday. The table had a small balloon bouquet.

"We're having a quiet day today," Shannon said. "Just you and me. We can do whatever you want. Park? Library? Or we can stay home and you can use your new art supplies?"

"Home," Ash said. "Art."

He spent the morning at his easel, using the new markers to draw. Shannon checked on him periodically but mostly left him alone, letting him create without hovering.

He drew without thinking too hard about it—shapes and colors, abstract patterns that felt right even if he couldn't articulate why. The markers were so much better than the chunky crayons. More control. More precision.

More like real art.

"That's beautiful," Shannon said when she came to tell him lunch was ready. "You're getting so good, honey."

At nap time—because apparently three-year-olds still needed naps—Ash lay in the crib that felt both too small and exactly right for his body, thinking about being three.

Three years old.

Twenty-five years old.

Both. Neither.

He fell asleep confused and woke up to Shannon saying Miss Jessica had arrived early as a birthday surprise.

"Happy birthday, Noam!" Miss Jessica had brought a special toy—a more advanced building set than his usual ones. "I thought you might like something more challenging now that you're a big three-year-old."

They played together, Miss Jessica watching as he figured out the new toy's mechanisms, praising his problem-solving.

"You're developing really well," she said to Shannon afterward, thinking Ash couldn't hear. "Cognitively advanced, creatively gifted. The art therapy seems to be helping with emotional regulation too."

"He's always been artistic," Shannon said softly. "Even before."

Miss Jessica made a note on her tablet. "The continuity is good. Maintaining those core aspects of identity. How's he doing with the age-appropriate social interactions?"

"Better. He has friends now. Seems to genuinely enjoy playing with them."

They were talking about him like a case study. Like a success story of the program.

And the worst part was they weren't wrong. He did have friends. He did enjoy T-ball. He did use his art as emotional regulation.

He was adapting. Successfully.

Saturday arrived with chaos. Shannon transformed the living room and backyard into an art studio party space. Easels set up outside, each with paper and supplies. Tables with Play-Doh and clay. A finger painting station with smocks for all the kids.

"This is going to be messy," Patrick said, helping set up. "But it'll be fun."

Guests arrived at 2 PM. Emma first, bouncing with excitement, her parents carrying a wrapped present.

"Happy birthday, Noam!" Emma hugged him enthusiastically. "Three is so big!"

Marcus from swimming came next, shy but pleased to be invited. Then two kids from T-ball—Tyler and Zoe. All of them around the same age, all treating this as a normal birthday party for their friend Noam.

Then family. Claire with three-month-old Sophie, who'd gotten so much bigger already. Cathy with her boyfriend. Declan. Eden home from college for the weekend specifically for this.

"Happy birthday, little brother," Eden said, handing him a wrapped present. "Big three."

The kids descended on the art stations immediately. Emma at the easel, Tyler with Play-Doh, Zoe at the finger painting station. Marcus followed Ash to the clay table.

"What are you making?" Marcus asked, poking at his clay.

"A bowl. I think." Ash's small hands shaped the clay, muscle memory from his old life guiding his new fingers. "For my mom."

"That's nice. I'm making a snake."

They worked in companionable silence, the kind Ash had gotten comfortable with. Other kids running around, laughing, making messes. Parents supervising, chatting, taking pictures.

It looked like a normal three-year-old's birthday party.

It felt like a normal three-year-old's birthday party.

And that was the problem.

"Okay everyone!" Shannon called. "Time for cake!"

They gathered around the table. The cake was covered in colorful frosting, decorated with paint splatters and an edible image of a paintbrush. Three candles on top.

Everyone sang "Happy Birthday." Ash stood there, three years old, twenty-five years old, surrounded by toddler friends and his family, all singing to Noam.

"Make a wish!" Emma said excitedly.

What did he wish for? To go back? To wake up from this? To—

He blew out the candles.

Everyone cheered.

"What did you wish for?" Tyler asked.

"Can't tell or it won't come true," Marcus said seriously.

Ash hadn't wished for anything. His mind had been blank in that moment, unable to formulate a coherent desire beyond a vague longing for something he couldn't name.

Cake was distributed. Ice cream too. The kids made even more of a mess, frosting on faces and hands. Parents helped clean them up.

Then presents.

Emma gave him a toy train that connected to his existing set. Marcus gave him a book about sea creatures. Tyler and Zoe had gone in together on a sandbox toy set. His siblings each gave thoughtful gifts—art supplies from Eden, building toys from Declan, a kids' science kit from Cathy.

Claire's gift was last. "This is from Sophie too," she said, holding the baby on her hip as she handed over the package.

Inside was a photo album. Pictures from the past year—Ash at T-ball, at swimming, at the easel, playing with blocks, holding Sophie the day she was born. On the last page was a note in Claire's handwriting:

"To Uncle Noam on your 3rd birthday. You've grown so much this year. We love you. - The Warner Family"

Ash stared at the album. At the evidence of his life as Noam. A year documented in photographs.

"Do you like it?" Claire asked.

"Yeah," Ash said quietly. "Thank you."

After presents, the kids went back to playing. Ash found himself at the easel, using his new markers to draw while the party continued around him.

Eden came to stand beside him. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been quiet. Even for you."

Ash added another line to his drawing—abstract, colorful, expressing something he couldn't put into words. "It's weird. The birthday."

"I bet." Eden was quiet for a moment. "You know what's weird to me? How good you are at this. At being a kid. At making friends and doing activities and just... living this life."

"Is that bad?"

"No. It's not bad. It's just..." Eden struggled for words. "I keep waiting for you to break. To have a crisis or a meltdown or something. But you just keep adapting. Keep finding ways to make this work."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. But watching you do it is kind of amazing. And kind of heartbreaking at the same time."

Ash finished his drawing. It was chaos and color and movement—might have been a bird in flight, might have been fire, might have been nothing at all.

"It's both," he said finally. "Amazing and heartbreaking. That's the whole thing."

Eden nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's exactly it."

The party wound down around 5 PM. Kids picked up by parents, gifts piled in the living room, house covered in art supplies and frosting and evidence of celebration.

Patrick started cleanup while Shannon gave Ash his bath—washing paint and clay and cake out of his hair.

"Did you have a good birthday?" she asked, shampooing gently.

Ash thought about it. Had he had a good birthday?

Emma had been excited to celebrate with him. Marcus had made him a clay snake to match his bowl. His siblings had given him thoughtful gifts. He'd gotten to do art with his friends.

Sophie had smiled at him when he'd held her, three months old and getting bigger every day.

"Yeah," he said. "It was good."

And he meant it. Despite everything, despite the surreality of celebrating being three when he was twenty-five, despite the weird grief of documenting his life as Noam—

It had been a good party.

"I'm glad, baby." Shannon rinsed his hair. "Three is going to be a good year for you. I can feel it."

After bath, in pajamas, Ash sat with Patrick on the couch looking through the photo album from Claire while Shannon put away dishes.

"This is a nice one," Patrick said, pointing to a picture of Ash sliding into home plate at his Thanksgiving game. "Remember this?"

"Yeah."

"And this one." A picture of Ash holding Sophie, both of them so small. "First day as an uncle."

They flipped through the whole album. A year of Noam's life. Evidence of adaptation, of activities, of family and friends and moments that were real even if the circumstances were impossible.

"You've come a long way," Patrick said softly. "This year. I'm proud of you."

"For what?"

"For trying. For making the best of this. For being open to having friends and doing activities and being part of the family." Patrick closed the album. "I know it's not what you wanted. But you've handled it with more grace than anyone could have expected."

Grace. That's what they called survival. What they called adaptation.

"I didn't have a choice," Ash said.

"You had choices every day. You could have shut down completely. Could have refused to participate. Could have made this year miserable for everyone." Patrick set the album on the coffee table. "But you didn't. You found ways to engage. To have moments of happiness. That took courage."

Courage or exhaustion? Ash wasn't sure there was a difference anymore.

In the crib that night, Shannon tucked him in with his stuffed dog—the one from Christmas that he'd named Cooper after deciding it looked like a Cooper.

"Happy birthday, my three-year-old," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Mommy loves you so much."

Ash lay in the dark after she left, thinking about the day. About being three. About Emma's excitement and Marcus's friendship and Eden's observation that he was both amazing and heartbreaking in how he'd adapted.

About the photo album documenting a year of Noam's life.

About Patrick saying he'd handled it with grace.

"My name is Ash," he whispered into the dark. "I'm twenty-five years old. I had a birthday party today for being three."

All of it was true.

All of it was contradictory.

All of it was his life now.

Five thousand four hundred and ninety-one days to go.

But today he'd turned three. Had celebrated with friends and family. Had received an album documenting his first year as Noam.

Had made a wish he couldn't articulate and blown out three candles.

Had been happy, in moments. Despite everything.

Tomorrow he'd be three years and one day old. Would play with his new toys and use his new art supplies and go to T-ball practice on Sunday.

Would be Uncle Noam when Claire brought Sophie to visit.

Would be Ash-who-was-Noam, living in the contradictions, finding grace in survival.

Three years old.

Twenty-five years old.

Both.