Done.
PART II
One Year Later
Chapter Nineteen
Lorelie
“Milo!” I yell up the stairs. “Let’s go!”
“No!” comes the shout from upstairs.
I stare at the ceiling. “I swear to God.”
Genesis bursts out laughing from the sofa and springs to her feet. “I got it.”
“Thanks,” I start to say, except the gratitude turns into a glare the second she plucks Agnes out of my arms.
“What?” she says, bouncing my daughter shamelessly against her hip.
I shake my head and stomp toward the stairs. Behind me she yells, “You’re welcome!”
I make a face she can’t see and keep climbing.
Milo’s six now, but the way he’s acting, he may as well be sixteen. When I push open his door, my heart cracks a little at the sight of him, my once bubbly, bright boy, sitting sideways on his bunk with his bottom lip jutting out.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” I ask.
He folds his arms tighter. “I don’t wanna go.”
I try to run a hand through his hair, but he leans back, dodging me like I’m covered in cooties. “Why not?”
“I wanna stay home.”
“Honey,” I say softly, “it’s your dad’s week.”
He looks away, jaw tight the way Patrick’s used to get when he was pissed. “I don’t wanna leave.”
I take a slow breath, steadying myself. I still don’t know how to navigate moments like this. When Patrick and I separated, we kept everything as calm and structured as we could. One week with me, one with him. Every other day with Agnes, since I’m still breastfeeding. And we don’t disappear from each other’s weeks either, the off-parent always does school drop-offs. It’s not perfect, but we’ve made it work.
At least… I thought we did.
But Milo has been getting more and more unsettled these past few months. Some weeks he refuses to leave here. Other weeks he refuses to come back. He’s more emotional, more clingy, more anxious.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe through the beginnings of another meltdown, and it hits me.
It may be time to get him into therapy. Something is going on with my son, and he’s trying to tell me the only way he knows how.
My mind drifts to the papers I had drafted last week. Patrick and I haven’t lived together in a year. I thought it was finally time to make it official.
But looking at Milo now, small and tight-fisted on the edge of his mattress, I know this isn’t the moment. The last thing I want is to be in the middle of a divorce, splitting assets and negotiating custody, while our oldest is clearly in crisis.
Patrick still sees Dr. Brett. I know that much. Maybe the center has child psychologists too. It’s probably a conversation I need to have with his dad first.
Not right now though. Now, I just need Milo out the door.
I crouch next to him. “How about this,” I say gently. “If you get dressed, we can ask him to meet us at Grandma and Grandpa’s. They probably miss you.”
