“But what if I’m bad? What if I spill my milk… or wet the bed?”
“Even if you mess up. Even if you cry. Even if you’re scared. They won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there are people who want to take care of kids. People who are kind.”
He’s quiet again, but I can see him thinking about this.
“Are you really my dad?” he asks suddenly, and the question is like a knife between my ribs.
I look at this little boy who shares my DNA but not my choice, who’s innocent of the circumstances that created him, and who’s been hurt by the same woman who hurt me.
Before I can figure out how to answer, Axel’s eyes shift to something behind me, and his body goes rigid.
“Sorry,” he whispers urgently. “I’m sorry, I was being quiet, I’m sorry—”
I turn to see Cassidy standing near the entrance of the living room, her satin bonnet askew, and wearing an oversized T-shirt hanging to her thighs.
“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” she says, moving closer and kneeling right beside where I’m squatting.
Axel studies her face, noticing the tears. “Were you sad, too?”
Cassidy nods. “Sometimes grown-ups have bad dreams too.”
“I can share my blanket,” he offers, tugging a corner loose. “It’s warm.”
“Oh, honey, that’s sweet, but keep your blanket,” Cassidy says. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sit right here. We’ll both feel safer that way.”
“Will you both stay?” he asks quietly.
“Of course,” I respond.
My legs start to cramp, so I shift to sit cross-legged on the floor beside his mattress. Cassidy settles beside me, close enough for our shoulders to touch.
Every time the wind rattles the windows or the house creaks, Axel startles awake, but gradually his breathing evens out and his small body relaxes into sleep.
We sit in silence for several more minutes before a sob breaks free from Cassidy’s throat.
I reach for her, pulling her against my chest. She collapses into me, burying her face in my shoulder.
“What kind of life has he been living, Eth?” Her voice is thick with tears. “He apologizes for crying. He eats as if someone will take the food from him. He thinks that he doesn’t deserve Christmas presents because he has no family. He asks if his new family will hit him. What did she do to him?”
I hold her tighter, my throat burning. “I don’t know.”
Yet that’s not entirely true. I sent money to cover living expenses, food, clothes and school through my lawyer every month for the past seven years. But money doesn’t buy love or patience or kindness.
Maybe I should have pressed charges eight years ago. Maybe if Britney had gone to jail, Axel would have been placed with a family who wanted him. Maybe the threat of prison would have forced her to get clean, to be the mother he deserved.
Cassidy leans back enough to look at my face. Her eyes, wet and wide, fix on mine before she closes the last inch of space between us and kisses me.
It’s desperate and salt-sweet from her tears, and I’m kissing her back like we’re fifteen again and madly in love and the world hasn’t broken us both into pieces.
I slide my hand up to cradle her face, and use my thumb to brush away the wetness on her cheek.
Her hands fist my shirt, pulling me closer, and I can taste eight years of grief and longing and regret in the space between our mouths. My body responds instantly; every nerve ending comes alive at her touch.
My free hand slides up, skimming the curve of her hip before settling at her waist. She’s warm, so damn warm, and I can feel the pebbled tightness of her nipples through the thin material.
