Don’t cry. Not again. Not here.
But the moment the elevator starts to rise, something inside me snaps. My throat tightens, my chest caves, and the tears return with a vengeance, spilling over before I can stop them. I press my hands to my face, trying to be quiet even though I’m completely alone.
I hate crying in public, even if technically an elevator isn’t public. It still feels like a spotlight. Like any second someone could step on and see me falling apart in full HD. My shoulders shake as I ugly cry into my sleeve while the elevator hums its way up. My reflection in the metal doors is blotchy and red-eyed.
Great.
Perfect.
Exactly the look I want when walking into an apartment with a ten-year-old who asks fifty questions in under a minute.
By the time I reach my floor, I’ve managed to swipe away most of the evidence. My eyes sting and my breathing is uneven, but it’s the best I can do. I push open the apartment door, hoping, praying, Connor is in his room.
Nope.
He and Antoni are on the couch, video game controllers in hand, laughing at something on the screen. The second the door clicks shut, both their heads snap my way.
And just like that, I’m exposed.
Connor’s whole expression changes—like someone hit pause on him—eyes widening, brows pulling tight with concern.
“Mom?”
He scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly trips over the cords to his video game console. He doesn’t even seem to notice. He just runs over, stopping right in front of me, staring straight up with that serious little-kid concentration that always makes my heart twist.
“Why are you crying?” he asks, his voice small and worried.
“I’m not—” I try, but my voice cracks, so the lie dies instantly. “I’m okay. I just had a long day.”
Connor frowns visibly confused and concerned. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece. Antoni stands too, video games forgotten.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently, “you look like someone kicked you in the shins and told you croissants were discontinued.”
I let out a pathetic laugh. “It’s…it’s been a day.”
Connor inches closer, hesitating like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to hug me or give me space. “Did someone say something mean to you? ‘Cause I can fight them.”
“Absolutely not,” Antoni says, horrified. “We do not condone violence unless it’s verbal and fabulous.”
Connor shoots him averyunimpressed look, then turns back to me, lower lip trembling just a little. “Is it…is it about me? Did I do something?”
Oh God. That breaks me in half.
“No, baby,” I whisper immediately, crouching down so we’re eye level. “You didn’t do anything. None of this is about you. I promise.”
That’s a lie.
He throws his arms around my neck without waiting for permission and I fold into him, breathing in the familiar smell of laundry soap and crayons and little-boy warmth, and something inside me steadies.
Antoni walks over and rests a hand on my shoulder, not pushing, not prying, just present.
Always the supportive and quiet anchor.
“Do you want tea?” he asks. “Or a blanket? Or for me to dramatically insult whoever made you cry?”
Connor nods like this is an excellent plan. “Yeah, we can get the blanket. And maybe Mom needs her fuzzy socks. She likes those when she’s sad.”
I laugh into his hair. It comes out wobbly, but real.
