The donuts are alive and breathing, every single one of them. Their soft, colorfully frosted doughy bodies are nestled together under the display glass at Rise-n-Shine Donuts, just off that strip mall along Sycamore. My son is standing next to me, face pressed against the glass. “What about that one, Dad?” he asks. “Or that one, Dad, what about that one?”

I watch the donuts’ bodies rise and fall, inhale and exhale. So small, helpless like kittens or the downy yellow chicks we saw at the state fair two years back. The chocolate ones seem most at ease—comfortable, almost. They lean into the tray, lean into each other, blink at me through the glass, disinterested. Nothing like the ones with rainbow sprinkles, who are clearly nervous. Their confetti-colored sides puff in and out breathlessly; they shift back and forth. I know that feeling.

It’s been only seven months since I last saw my son, but I swear he looks different. Bigger, and more confident than the six-year-old I remember. His hair is freshly cut. Sometimes expressions cross his face that I don’t recognize, either because he never used to make them or because I never noticed before. I’ve been noticing a lot of things lately—quiet things mostly, like sunlight sparkling on the hood of my car, a Civic, almost fifteen years old, the only thing Marguerite left me after the divorce papers were signed, or the little birds taking dust baths in the gravel parking lot behind my new apartment. I wonder if my boy notices these quiet things too. I hope so. The thought is calming.

Marguerite was never kind to me, especially this past year, but in spite of that, I know she’s a good mother. She is living with another man now—a boyfriend or fiancé, I’m not sure and I don’t ask. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a lawyer, which seems like a good fit for Marguerite. I wonder how much of my boy’s new confidence comes from him. I wonder if my boy’s new life is a good one. It must be.

Behind the glass case at Rise-n-Shine Donuts, of all the vibrantly colored, warm little creatures, the one that sticks out most to me is a plain-looking one, sugar-encrusted, plump and round without the hole in the center. Blueberry Filled the little placard reads, between the Boston creams and chocolate frosted. “What about that one?” I ask, and point.

For a moment, I worry that my son will be unimpressed with such a plain-looking donut—but instead, he looks at me solemnly, wide-eyed, and nods. “That one,” he says.

“Can you be gentle with it?” I ask.

“I can be gentle,” he says. I hope this will be a good lesson for him. Marguerite’s new boyfriend, I don’t know what he’s teaching my son, but it’s probably not how to be gentle. In spite of things like sunlight and little birds taking dust baths, this is not a gentle world.

I tell the cashier which one we want. She reaches into the glass case with a pair of metal tongs, wraps the frightened little donut up, and passes it to me across the counter. Soft and sweet, it trembles in its wax paper. I hold the donut gently but firmly, hoping it will feel the warmth of my hands through the wrapper and be soothed.

I turn to the child next to me, with his new haircut, his unfamiliar expressions, his unfamiliar world.

“Carefully,” I say, and deliver this vulnerable little creature into my son’s cupped hands.

Amanda K Horn’s fiction has appeared in publications including Southeast Review and The Madison Review. She holds an MFA from Columbia University, and has served as an editor for The Columbia Journal and The Offing. She lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing. Find her on Twitter @amandakhorn.