“It’s not safe for him here,” I protested. There was an ugly purple mark on my baby’s cheek. He couldn’t even go out for ice cream, for heaven’s sake!
But the dripping wet reflection argued. I grew up in the mob, didn’t I? That woman, staring back at me, she’d survived.
“My father kept me away, in a gilded prison,” I hissed.
Yet it had broken my heart to leave him. And now it was too late. There was no way to call him up, to have a little chat, let alone sit in the comfort of the living room with the TV in the background, eating popped corn and sipping sodas. My childhood ended abruptly. The distance I created for my own wellbeing caused a rift, only to have death seal that door forever.
I can’t separate them.
“So….” I glared at the reflection. “We’re staying?”
The wet-faced woman nodded.We are.
A little while later, snuggled into the blanket, I stared at the same page, eyes not reading the words. The door banged open, a hiss echoing the crack of wood against wall.
“She’s not sleeping, see!” Brady protested, tugging at his father’s hand as he tried to rush into the room. “She never sleeps before saying prayers.”
Ivan’s gaze met mine. “He’s brushed teeth. Jammies. Ready for bed.”
I nodded and tried to ignore the buzz in my veins. That accent, those clipped words…they freaking did things to me. “Thank you.”
Ivan dipped his chin before releasing his son’s hand.
“Wait, um—” I started but felt the color rise to my cheeks.
“Yes?” Ivan’s deep bass filled the space. It did things to me, sending little shivers down my legs straight to the tips of my toes.
“Want to help me tuck him in?” I offered.
“Prayers first, mama.” Brady stuck out his chin.
“Go on, son, say your prayers.” Ivan lingered at the door, not coming forward, but not leaving.
“Nooo!” Brady rolled his eyes and grabbed at his father’s heavy paw. “Not like that. Like this!”
Reluctantly, Ivan budged. Brady dropped to his knees before the bed, arm held high to keep his hold on his father.
I knelt on the other side of the little boy, folding my hands and bowing my head to the mattress. I didn’t watch, but I heard the mass of violence fold himself onto the floor. He didn’t need to feel my questioning gaze. This was our son’s moment.
Our son—the one I thanked the heavens for each and every night.
If we stayed, that meant sharing him.
I’m prepared for that.
Ivan had proven himself.
Once Brady was satisfied, he began. “God, thank you for this day. It was beautiful. Thank you for mama and tatko, thank you for the bread and meat at supper, but thank you so much for theice cream! Chocolate is my favorite! Please keep everyone safe. Bring rain for the crops, and good grass for the cows. Amen.”
“Amen,” I repeated.
After a moment, a softamenwhispered from the other side.
Brady jumped onto the mattress and burrowed under the comforter. “You can go read on the couch, mama. I’m a big boy.”
A big boy who would come out three or four times before sleep.
Stooping to pick up Pooh from where he’d fallen on the floor, I rubbed my chest, trying to dispel the ache. “I’ll be back later, okay, buddy?”
