Yes.
Absolutely. Especially after being so starved for the proper attention in my marriage. Especially after having obligatory sex when I didn’t want to. I’m almost certain I’d never have to have obligatory sex with those two. They’d honor me after a long day. Not lie on top of me, take their fill, and get off without a care for my pleasure.
Paco’s toe beans join me in the kitchen. His tail whips the air like he’s recharged and ready for another day of solid napping.
“Ay, why did I grab that extra shift, mijo?”
I groan into my hands, palms over my eyes. I need caffeine while the coffee finishes dripping into the cup I set up last night. I know why I picked up an extra ICU shift today. So I’m not sitting here, drowning in my own thoughts, rearranging my life into neat little boxes and pretending the twins aren’t a storm I want to stand in a little longer.
Like, I can’t hear Emilio yelling about what he wants for breakfast. Massimo telling him to shut the fuck up, like he always does. Two deep voices overlapping, bickering, filling every corner of that big modern house. I shouldn’t miss it. I barely know them. That’s what I try to tell myself.
But missing doesn’t care about logic. Missing happens because something mattered. They made me feel like I mattered. Like I was special, and that’s what trips me up. What if they are as good as it gets?
The thought of dating again is repulsive, but with them, it’s so much more than dating. It’s like being the object of someone’s obsession, and I know that sounds bad, but why is that so wrong? Why is it so wrong to be admired, cared for, and taken care of? Isn’t it what I do for everyone else?
“My little Paco, shut off my brain already. They occupy too much.”
He barks, as if answering. As if knowing. Then trots to his food bowl, sniffs it, and looks back at me like I’ve failed him as a mother. Which I have this morning. I go through the motions of getting his breakfast together, mine too. When he’s happily chowing down, I turn my attention to my usual standby on long days.
“Alright, alright,” I sigh, grabbing the crockpot from the cabinet. “Let’s get some chicken cooking for both of us. Then you, my spoiled little prince, can have some for dinner tonight.”
I pull everything out of the fridge and prep it while sipping my coffee. Finally, dump in the stock, chicken thighs, garlic, onions, and other flavors, then click it on. The smell will fill the apartment by the time I get back from my shift. It’s how I’ll make up for abandoning him today. Just as I’m about to sit down to eat my toast and relish my coffee before getting ready, my phone rings in my bedroom. At this hour, I already know who it is.
Mami.
Seconds pass as I debate running to get it. By the fourth ring, guilt drives my steps into my room, and I collapse on the bed. Lying back down to answer it.
“Hola.”
“Mi hija! You sound sick. Are you sick? Did the people make you ill? What did I tell you about drinking the root, leak, and lemon tea every day? Did you add the honey to coat your throat?”
And this is why I debated answering her. She thinks every island remedy is a cure rather than real medicine. But there is no cure for what I’m feeling.
“Mami, I’m not sick.”
She continues with more home remedies. All from my childhood, not knowing the real reason. How would I even explain this weekend? That I was railed by twin brothers a decade younger than me. Even saying that in my mind sounds so bad. Made worse when I think of Emilio blurting out Massimo’s confession. He loves me.
It screams across my mind.
Mami would die if she knew. Would be spilling prayers all over her rosary in church and lighting every candle in the place. Be praying to every saint and rebuking every demon out there.
“Why did you never date again?” My question cuts through her nagging, sharp and clear. Never remembering me asking or her telling until now.
Silence.
Not the annoyed kind. Nor a dramatic gasp. And not a scolding one. A dangerous one. The kind that lingers so long, I almost wish I hadn’t asked. Almost.
“Why are you asking me that?” I stare at the ceiling. At the tiny crack in the paint, I’ve never asked the landlord to fix it. But is the tiny crack enough to make a fuss over? Like this question, do I really need to know after my father was never in my life to begin with?
“No reason,” I lie. “Just something I heard at work that got me wondering.”
Vague enough if she wants to drop it. Noncommittal enough for me not to be grilled by it. The silence grows. The need for her to answer grows with it. Until she lets out a long breath. Until it sounds like twenty years of regret or guilt were about to be unloaded.
“I didn’t want to repeat my mistake,” she says finally, which shocks me. Mami never admits to making a mistake. Not ever. She’ll say she changed her mind before admitting she’s wrong.
“Mistake?” My throat tightens. Did she just call me a mistake? “Me?”
Calling our life a mistake? An ugly panic slips under my skin.
