I stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel tighter. How the hell did conversations with kids always end up like this? Awkward silences, questions I couldn’t answer, honesty I definitely didn’t want to give.
This was why I’d spent years avoiding children. They were worse than lawyers. They were small, unpredictable interrogators capable of cutting straight to the point.
WasI nervous?
“Nervous” wasn’t the right word. “Nervous” implied something fixable, temporary, like public speaking or walking into court. This wasn’t nerves. This was something else entirely. Something unsettling and persistent. Something that had gotten under my skin and was staying there, quietly changing things I didn’t ask to have changed. It wasn’t as simple as “nervous,” but there wasn’t exactly a better word.
“I don’t think nervous is the right word,” I tried, awkwardly clearing my throat. “Maybe cautious.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She tilted her head, skeptical. “Isn’t that just a fancy word for nervous?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I disagree,” I muttered, tapping my fingers against the wheel.
Lucia made a frustrated little noise from the back seat, clearly annoyed by my careful word choices. “Why don’t you just tell her?”
“It’s ... I don’t think it would help.”
“Help what?” she asked immediately, leaning forward again. “Does something need helping?”
Jesus. How did kids keep doing that? Twisting your words around until you had nowhere safe to hide.
“No, nothing needs helping,” I corrected quickly, trying to sound calm and failing miserably. “It’s just that Valentina already knows ... enough.”
Lucia gave me a confused look. “What’s enough?”
“You know,” I said, vaguely waving a hand. “Enough.”
She shook her head firmly. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She wasn’t wrong. But explaining exactly how deep this rabbit hole went was even worse. I couldn’t exactly say, “Listen, kid, your aunt makes me question my entire life, and every time I look at her I realize I’ve made a thousand mistakes I can’t fix.”
Instead I offered something safer. “Sometimes adults keep things to themselves. It’s better that way.”
Lucia frowned harder, clearly unimpressed. “Better for who?”
Good question. Definitely not me.
“Just ... better,” I said weakly.
She sighed heavily, loudly, dramatically—exactly the way Valentina would’ve done. “I think adults just make everything complicated for no reason.”
I rubbed a hand over my jaw, feeling tired. “You might be right about that.”
“Then just tell her,” she said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
I glanced at her through the mirror again, wondering when I’d lost control of this conversation. “I’ll think about it.”
“No, you won’t,” she muttered, unimpressed. “You’re just saying that so I stop asking.”
And damn, if she wasn’t right again.
“Maybe,” I admitted finally, feeling oddly defeated. “But let’s keep that between us, okay?”
She thought about it for a second before nodding. “Okay. But just for now.”
