I don’t know if I can keep lying to him. But more importantly, I don’t know if I’m ready to share my son.
“Your turn, Mom.”
I focus back on Austin, who’s waiting patiently for me to spin. His questions have moved on to safer territory. Why do some people like spicy food, whether fish get thirsty, if superheroes ever get tired of saving people.
Then he blindsides me again.
“Mom, who is my dad?”
My hand freezes halfway to the spinner. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I was thinking maybe if my dad was around, he could help with a baby. Then I could have a brother.”
His small voice punches the air right out of me. “I’m sorry, bud, but I’m not ready for another baby. Even if your dad was in the picture.”
His face falls. “So I’ll never meet him?”
The dejection in his voice nearly breaks me. I want to say yes, to grab him right now and drive to wherever Alessio is. Anything to bring back that bright smile.
But I still don’t know if I want Alessio in our lives that way. Not really.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “But you’ll always have me. That’s never going to change.”
“I know.” He says it with such certainty that I pull him into a hug, breathing in the scent of his apple shampoo.
“How about we go get ice cream?”
“Yeah!”
He’s racing to his room for shoes before I finish putting the game away. While he’s gone, I check my banking app to see if I can afford the treat. I’ve got tips from work, but I was hoping to save those for his medication this week.
When the app loads, I stare at the screen in disbelief. The number in my checking account is wrong. Has to be wrong. I stare at the number again, certain the app must be glitching.
But there it is. A deposit from the strip club this morning for five thousand dollars.
Five thousand.
I click through to the transaction details, confirming what I already suspected. Alessio sent me the money. This isn’t payment for two days’ work. I don’t make anywhere near that much in two nights. This is something else entirely.
My first instinct is to text him back, tell him I don’t need his charity. I might be broke, I might be stripping to cover bills, but pride is the one thing I’ve managed to hold on to.
Then Austin comes bounding back into the room, his face lit up with excitement about ice cream, and I hesitate.
If the rumors about mafia money are true, why shouldn’t Alessio contribute to his son’s ice cream and medication? Maybe I should think of this as child support.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking his small hand in mine.
We stop at the pharmacy first. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel that familiar knot of anxiety as I hand over my insurance card. The constant worry about money has been a weight on my shoulders for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe without it pressing down on me.
At the ice cream shop, I splurge and buy myself a cone, too. The place smells like sugar and waffle cones, laughter from kids spilling out of the sticky booths. It feels a world away from dark clubs and men with guns. The kind of place I wish I could keep my son in forever.
We sit at a little metal table on the patio, and I watch Austin attack his chocolate chip cookie dough with single-minded determination. The way he wrinkles his nose when the cold hits his teeth. How he uses his whole tongue to catch the drips running down the cone.
If I were sketching this moment, I’d capture the concentration on his face, the chocolate smeared on his chin. These are the details I want to remember, not the complicated mess brewing with his father.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Alessio telling me to rest and take more time off if I need it.
I’ve read somewhere that some people don’t say how they feel with words. They show care in other ways. They tell you to drive safely, bring soup when you’re sick, remember the little things that matter to you.
