But moments like this don’t hold forever.
They slip.
And when they do, the damage is often irreparable.
I step inside, bare feet sinking into the rug beside his bed. My fingers twitch. I want to touch his hair, but I don’t. He alwayswakes up if I do. Sensitive little sensors in his temples. Just like?—
No. Notjust like. There’s no “just like.” That’s the whole damn point.
I sit down anyway. Gently. The mattress sighs beneath me.
“Ben,” I whisper.
He stirs, nose scrunching. Then his eyes flutter open. Sleepy, squinting, confused.
“Hi,” he mumbles.
“Hey, baby.”
He stretches like a starfish, limbs everywhere, and then rolls toward me. “Is it school time?”
“Almost.” I brush imaginary lint off his pajama top. “I wanted to talk to you before.”
He blinks again. “Did I do something?”
“No.” I smile, soft. “You’re perfect. I just… I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Something really important.”
He props himself on one elbow, expression serious in that way only five-year-olds manage—like the weight of the universe could fit between their brows.
“I’m listening.”
I open my mouth.
And before a single syllable comes out, he tilts his head and asks:
“Is Mr. Kuraken going away again?”
I freeze.
Something sharp and ancient cracks inside my chest.
“Why do you ask that?”
He shrugs. Looks down. Picks at a loose thread on his blanket. “He was gone before. Then he was back. Then you yelled. Then he was gone again. But now he’s kinda back. I just wanna know if he’s gonna leave.”
I stare at him.
Five years old, and already bracing for people to vanish.
Because I taught him how to expect that.
“I…” My throat closes.
He glances up at me, eyes too big for his face, and something in me breaks open so completely I’m surprised it doesn’t make a sound.
I lean forward and wrap him in my arms. Tight. Too tight. He doesn’t complain.
He just melts into me.
