"Mama, look," Noah says then, pushing his sketchbooktoward me. "It's you."
I glance down at the page and barely resist gasping. It’s me—well,Super Me—drawn like a comic book character. Spandex, cape, hair blowing in the wind, one arm flexed, the other on my hip, levitating in the air.
Liam and Noah are in the scene too. Liam’s spinning a basketball, and Noah’s pointing at me with a paintbrush, both smiling up at me in awe.
The comic’s title readsSuper Mom.
I wonder—after Liam's words and now Noah's drawing—is this how they truly perceive me? Am I actually holding it all together, and they see that? Am I actually doing right and good in their eyes?
I bite my lip to stop the tears from falling, and take a few moments to pull myself together as Noah looks at me eagerly.
"That's really good, Noah," Liam comments, smiling at me. "Spot on."
"Do you like it, Mama?" Noah asks.
I wrap my arms around him, squeezing him close and peppering kisses on his head.
"I love it, baby. And I love you," I kiss his ginger hair once more, before looking up to Liam. "And you."
Liam tries to roll his eyes, too cool for his mom, but the nonchalance doesn't land because of the smile still on his face.
No matter what, I have Diane and Emmett.
I have my sons.
I'm okay.
We're going to be okay.
Chapter Seven
Wendy
At first, I'm not sure what wakes me up.
The bedroom is pitch-black, and it takes my eyes a couple of minutes to adjust. There’s a weight on my waist and I’m warm, almost too warm, but it feels nice.
Actually, it feels more than nice.
Slowly, carefully, I look down.
Atlas' big arm is wrapped around my waist, his chest pressed flush against my back. I freeze, my heart stuttering once and then slamming violently in my chest.
I feel dizzy and disoriented, just from this simple touch from my husband. It's a touch I've known since I was twelve years old, but he hasn't given me this in so long that it feels strange.
Closing my eyes, I try to keep my breathing steady and controlled, shamelessly desperate for any crumbs of affection from Atlas now.
Even now, even with all the ways he's hurt me, ignored me, left me feeling invisible, I still want—need—his touch. It's grounding and so solid and warm. I soak in it, because this might be all I get because when he's awake, he wants nothing to do with me.
Feeling pathetic, I just let this lightness spread through me, even if it means nothing because he's not choosing to do it.
I still need it. I still need him.
The digital clock reads 3:57 when I wake.
It's 4:08 when I feel everything shift.
A sound against the back of my neck, where his hot breath is puffing rapidly now. A broken whimper, then another one.
