Sitting on My Son's Lap The old minivan smelled like coffee, fast food wrappers, and the faint coconut sunscreen still stuck to our skin from the beach house. We’d been driving for six straight hours, and the AC had given up somewhere around hour three. Now the late August heat pressed in through the windows like a sweaty hand. You sat in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the wheel, eyes locked on the crawling interstate traffic. Your name is Ryan - twenty-one, broad-shouldered from college lacrosse, with that same messy dark hair you’ve had since you were little. Next to you in the passenger seat, your Aunt Karen snored softly under her oversized sunglasses. In the far back, your cousin Jake had his headphones on and his face buried in a Switch. That left only one spot. The middle bench. With me. I’m Lisa. Forty-three. Still in the sundress I’d thrown on this morning - thin yellow cotton that had ridden up my thighs hours ago and refused to behave. My husband, your dad, had bailed on the family trip at the last minute for “work.” So here we were, four adults and not enough seats because the damn roof rack took up the cargo space. The only option was for me to sit on your lap. It had started innocent enough. You’d patted your thigh like it was no big deal. “C’mon, Mom. I don’t bite.” You’d grinned that cocky half-smile that always made my stomach flip a little, even when you were ten. I’d laughed, rolled my eyes, and lowered myself onto you, trying to keep most of my weight on my own legs. That lasted about twenty minutes. Now, five hours later, my ass was molded completely against your crotch. The dress had bunched up so