Every Saturday morning the little boy ate bananas for breakfast. He loved bananas and would often eat a whole bunch. He would peel each one carefully, bite off the brown end and spit it out on a plate. He liked to wash the bananas down with a glass of cold milk.

The scent of early summer blossoms filled the room. Mummy knew that if she ran her fingers through the little boy’s blonde hair she would smell the fragrance of lilac.

“Do you know what day it is tomorrow, sweetheart?” she asked.

“No,” the little boy said, his mouth full.

“Tomorrow, it will be six years since a certain little baby of mine was born. I know his birthday’s coming when I smell the lilacs.”

“Where is this baby?” the little boy asked.

“He’s sitting right in front of me eating bananas like a little monkey,” Mummy said.

“I’m no baby, I’m a boy,” the little boy said defiantly. But then he rushed at his mother and cried: “It’s my birthday, a real birthday!”

“Well,” Mummy sighed, “You’ll always be a little baby to me.” But to the boy she said: “That’s right. You’re a big boy now and that means you have to start behaving like one. A whole six years old, that’s really something.”

“Six years old,” the little boy repeated proudly. “Even Bobby can’t brag he’s a year older than me ‘cause I caught up to him.”

Mummy smiled but said nothing. She didn’t want to spoil it for him.

Daddy came in carrying his weekend paper. Every Saturday morning, he’d eat two soft-boiled eggs and a slice of buttered toast while reading his Saturday paper. He gave the comics to the little boy and the entertainment section to Mummy.

The little boy got up on Daddy’s lap and asked: “Do you know whose birthday it is tomorrow?”

“Breznev,” Daddy said, plunging his spoon into his soft-boiled egg.

“No,” the little boy laughed. “Guess again.”

“Well,” Daddy said, “if it’s not Breznev than it has to be Miss Piggy.”

“Wrong again,” the little boy laughed in delight, bouncing up and down on Daddy’s lap.

“I give up then,” Daddy said, glancing over the little boy’s head at the newspaper.

“But it’s me, Daddy,” the little boy said, staring into his father’s eyes. “Don’t you know that I’m gonna be six tomorrow?”

“Well I’ll be,” Daddy said with surprise. “What a big boy. Since you’re so big already, maybe you’d like to choose your own birthday present. What do you say, Mummy?”

“I think that’d be okay,” Mummy agreed. “Think about it and then let us know. After all, someone who’s six already probably knows what he wants.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” the little boy said. “I know what I want.”

“Out with it then,” Daddy said.

The little boy looked at his father seriously and said: “I want a million.”

“A million!” Daddy exclaimed. “You knocked me off my chair. Here I go!” and he fell to the floor. “You floored me, kid,” he called from underneath the table.

“That little boy has lost his mind,” Mummy said. “We can’t give you a million,” she added with disappointment. “A person can’t just go out and buy a million in a store like a toy. You’ve got to earn a million. Look at your Daddy, he’s a grown up, works all day, morning till night, and he still doesn’t have a million.”

“And he never will have,” Daddy added, getting up from beneath the table.

“But you said that I’m big enough to know what I want,” the little boy said stubbornly, “and I want a million.”

“Whoever heard of such nonsense,” Daddy said severely. “You’re also old enough to know that you can’t always get what you want.”

“Then I’ll earn it,” the little boy decided. “Tell me what I should do to make a million.”

“For God’s sake,” Mummy said, “you’ve got plenty of time to think about that. But when the time comes, maybe you’d like to be a doctor, or a lawyer. Maybe even an inventor, they make a lot.”

“I don’t wanna be those things,” the little boy said, shaking his head. “I wanna be a millionaire.”

“Well then, you’re going to have to work for it, buddy,” Daddy said, losing his patience. “Work till you drop. Nobody’s born a millionaire. And even if you do finally get your million, you won’t have enough energy left over to spend it. But,” he added, seeing the disappointed look on the little boy’s face, “if you really want it, I believe you’ll work your way to that million. After all, we’re living in the land of opportunity, a country where miracles happen. You’ve just got to want it hard enough. I came to this country a bit late, but I know people who’ve made it. Don’t think I’m complaining though,” he continued, glancing at Mummy. “Other things make me happy. Like right now I’m going out on my bike. I’ll follow the back roads up to the Niagara Escarpment, listen to the birds and smell the fresh air. Maybe I’ll even stop and get an ice cream along the way. I know you can’t understand it yet, but in my eyes that’s better than a million.”

Daddy got up from the table, put on his cap and kissed Mummy on the cheek. “Buy him a little truck,” he said. “And don’t worry about it.”

Taking the little boy by the shoulders, he said: “Be nice to Mummy today, she’ll be very sad that she can’t buy you that million.”

After he’d gone, Mummy made herself a black coffee and joined the little boy. He was sitting on the patio, swinging his legs and watching a group of small white butterflies chase each other around the hedge.

After awhile, Mummy said: “So, sweetheart, have you decided to be a doctor, lawyer or an inventor when you grow up?”

“I think,” the little boy said, frowning, “that I’d rather be a butterfly.”

Mummy sighed. “You’re talking nonsense,” she said. “How could you be a butterfly? A butterfly is an insect and you’re a person. A person can’t be a butterfly and a butterfly can’t be a person.”

“But Daddy said if you want something hard enough you can get it,” he reminded her.

“That’s true, but after all, Daddy didn’t mean a butterfly. Daddy meant something else. Let’s see. How could I explain it to you—“

But the little boy had leapt off his chair and was running around the lawn in little circles, flapping his arms.

“I’ll learn to fly like them in awhile!” he shouted.

Mummy laughed. She could see that she didn’t need to worry about the million. The little boy had already forgotten about it. I do take him too seriously, she thought. He’s only a child.

“What kind of butterfly are you going to be, sweetheart?” she called to him. “A Swallowtail, a Silverspot, or maybe a Monarch?”

“A big purple one!” the little boy cried, continuing to circle the lawn.

“Best of luck,” Mummy said, going inside to make the beds.

Watching him later on from an upstairs bedroom window, it occurred to Mummy that the little boy stumbling dizzily about the lawn seemed small for his age. But that was probably just because she was looking at him from above.

Mummy went downstairs to prepare his favourite lunch—grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. She took it out to the now shaded patio and called him. From where she was standing, he seemed incredibly small—arms like toothpicks, bony knees, and a big head atop a frail neck.

Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier, she shivered. It was unbelievable how blind she’d become. She still saw him as a plump little baby but he was just skin and bones.

“I’ll be purple soon,” the little boy said.

“Where did you get so dirty?” she asked him. “I’m going shopping now, but I want to see that purple stuff washed off by the time I get back,” she ordered. “And eat all your lunch, you’re thin as a rake.”

“Are you going to buy me a surprise?” he asked.

“Yes, but only if I find a nice, clean little boy waiting for me when I get back.”

“Do you wanna see how good I can fly already?” he said.

“I don’t have time to play anymore,” Mummy said. “But I’m sure you’ll be even better by the time I get back.”

“I can already fly across the whole backyard,” he said proudly.

“Then you can fly off and buy me some bread,” Mummy joked. “That’ll be a relief. We won’t even need a car, you’ll just fly off to do the shopping.” She kissed the little boy and went to get the car.

He’s got a wild imagination, she thought on her way to the store. Unhealthy. He lives in a fantasy world, confusing make-believe with reality. She hoped he would grow out of it, otherwise he’d be in for a big shock when he realized what being an adult meant. She recalled her own childhood and how she would often make believe she was a turtle or a snail. She’d crawl under a table or into a closet and pretend she was in a shell. He takes after me, she thought happily. But otherwise he takes after his father, a little too serious for his age. He seemed too old for toys already—he might not like the little truck. He did show an interest in butterflies though.

She went to a bookstore and found an illustrated children’s handbook on butterflies. She was sure that the present would make him happy. And it would be useful too; he’d understand the difference between butterflies and people. It occurred to her that she might also buy him a chance in the million-dollar lotto. She got a ticket starting with the number four; the little boy’s birthday and also the day of the draw. Finally, she bought some Dutch chocolate and six candles for the cake.

The little boy wasn’t at home when she got back. She heard children’s voices from the next yard; he was probably with them.

She wrapped his present and watched her favourite television show while the cake was baking. When the cake cooled, she cut it in two with a long knife and filled it with Parisian cream. After smoothing on the chocolate, she decorated the cake with whipped cream roses and a little marzipan sign that said ‘Happy Birthday’ in light blue icing. As a finishing touch, she placed six tiny red candles on the cake and carried it proudly to the dining room table, stepping back to admire her creation. It was time to find the little boy, give him a bath and dress him for his birthday dinner. She went next door to where all the kids were playing cops and robbers, but they hadn’t seen him all day. Mummy ran to the park. She checked the swings and slides, crawled through the big concrete pipe, looked through the sandbox for his toys, but all in vain. There was no sign of him. She hurried back home to see if he hadn’t returned in the meantime.

“Are you home, sweetheart?” she called from the door. “Say something, Mummy is getting worried.”

“Here I am,” she heard a thin little thin voice, which seemed to be coming from the darkened dining room.

“Where are you?” she said, turning on the light.

“Here,” the little voice said, “on the cake.”

Sitting on the cake, right on the letter ‘H’, was a large purple butterfly, its little mouth white from whipped cream.

“The cake is really good,” he said, “thank you, Mummy, sugar is my favourite.”

“My God, what happened to you,” she cried, horrified.

“A big purple butterfly,” the little boy said. He flapped his wings and took off, circling three times above the cake before landing on Mummy’s hand, his little legs sticky from chocolate icing. Only now, up close, could she recognize his tiny face and dark, serious eyes. Mummy had to admit that the royal purple suited him well and that for his age he had exceptionally well-developed taste. She was about to touch him but he shouted:

“Not the wings please! Fingers leave oily marks and I won’t be able to fly.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, pulling her hand back. “But what will we tell Daddy? He’ll be very angry when he sees you like this. Can’t you do something about it?”

“I can,” the little boy said. “If I really wanted, I could be a white butterfly. All the other butterflies laugh at me because of my colour.”

“I don’t think it’s right,” Mummy said, “to always try to be different than everyone else. And besides, you have to realize that you’re in greater danger because you stand out more than a regular butterfly.”

“Not when I’m sitting in the lilacs. Lilac juice is my favourite, but it’s no fun being alone all the time. The white butterflies have tons of fun together.”

“What if you tried being a little boy again?” Mummy suggested carefully. “The neighbour’s yard was full of kids and they were all asking about you. They were playing all day and had lots of fun.”

“I don’t want to,” the little boy said. “I’m gonna stay a butterfly, that’s even more fun—flying around and stuff.”

“What will I do without you?” Mummy said, her voice shaking. “You do know that butterflies freeze in winter. It’s in the book I bought you for your birthday. If you were a little boy again, I could read it for you in bed.” She knew how much he loved it when someone read to him at bedtime.

But the little boy just yawned and said: “I think I’ll take off while I still feel like it. My wings are a little sore.”

“That’s because you’re not used to it,” Mummy said. “It’s no wonder your wings hurt, all that flying around you did today.”

The little boy was so light that she didn’t even feel him take off. She watched him fold each of his legs neatly beneath his little black body—that way they wouldn’t interfere with his flying. Mummy really was very proud of him.

“Good night, Mummy. And say hi to Daddy,” he called out in his thin voice as he flew out to the garden through the open window.

She sat alone with the cake in the darkened dining room and wept. After awhile, Daddy came home from his Saturday trip. If he paid more attention to the boy it wouldn’t have happened, she tried telling herself, but she didn’t say anything.

“Where’s the boy?” Daddy asked right away.

“I let him sleep over at Bobbie’s tonight, since it’s his birthday,” she lied, blushing in the dark.

“That’s good,” Daddy said. “Not that I don’t miss him, but I like his independence. When I was his age, I was still pretty much hanging onto my mother’s skirts.”

It took Mummy a long time to fall asleep. When she finally did, she slept fitfully and woke often. She was scared that the little boy might catch cold. She worried about his allergies, which grew worse at night. She worried about his teeth; he’d eaten sugar before bed and hadn’t brushed them. Where was he sleeping? Was it safe? What if the neighbour’s cat got him? Or an owl plucked him up? She hoped he was sleeping in the lilac, among the tiny purple blossoms where he would be hardest to see.

Early next morning, Mummy opened all the windows and the door to the patio. It was a lovely day and the butterflies were once again darting about the hedge. It seemed to Mummy that she could hear their quiet shouts and laughter. She hoped the little boy had changed his mind and become a white butterfly. He’d be having lots of fun together with the others now. But try as she might, she couldn’t spot his face among the circling group. To tempt the little boy, she brought the cake out onto the patio, lit the candles, and began to sing, “Happy Birthday to you…”

The butterflies began coming closer. Their laughter grew louder, and it seemed to Mummy that she could make out individual voices calling to one another. They’ll be scared of me, she thought, getting up to go to the kitchen; I should leave for awhile.

In the meantime, Daddy came down from the bedroom, barefoot and wearing only his pajama bottoms. He walked through the open door onto the patio, stretched lazily in the sun and then suddenly looked around, wide-eyed: “For god’s sake, Mummy, what’s happening here,” he shouted, running into the kitchen.

“The cake’s melting in the sun and there are a bunch of burnt butterflies dying on top of it. What a sight. Whose idea was this?”

Mummy felt the blood rush from her head. She had to hold onto Daddy to keep from fainting.

“Call a doctor!” she screamed as she ran out to the patio.

The cake was littered with butterfly bodies, some still moving. She heard quiet weeping, soulful calls and reproaches. Some of the butterflies that were not as badly burned were trying to crawl down the table leg and into the grass. She wanted to help them, but was afraid that she’d harm them even more by touching them. Weeping pitifully, she cried, “My God, how awful!” Picking up one tiny corpse after another, she tried to make out their faces to see if the little boy was among them.

Daddy finished making coffee and came out onto the patio. Taking her by the shoulders and wiping away her tears he said, “Didn’t you know that moths and butterflies were attracted to fire? How could you even think of lighting the candles before the boy comes home? I guess you just can’t wait for him to get back, right?’

“He’ll never come back now,” Mummy lamented.

“Oh sure he will, silly,” Daddy said patiently, trying to cheer her up. It’s unreal how a woman changes after having a child, he thought. Would she ever have cried over a bunch of butterflies before? ‘Call a doctor’, he laughed to himself. A butterfly doctor for the butterflies, a cake doctor for the cake and, it occurred to him, perhaps a psychiatrist for…but he quickly brushed the thought away.

“Here he comes. Here comes your little darling,” Daddy said, half jokingly and half jealously. “I can hear him coming round the corner.”

The little boy rushed into the backyard, a group of children in tow. “Can we have the cake, Mummy?” he cried.

“You’d better go wash that purple stuff off your face first,” Daddy said, slapping him gently on the behind.