I’d wanted to argue. To protest. To ask what he could possibly know about growing up in a home where domestic violence was just an average day and fear was the ruling emotion. Mads, God bless him, had known nothing but a supportive, loving environment—a literal dream compared to the shitshow I’d dealt with. But I bit my tongue. Because the truth was, Mads didn’t need to know what I knew. He didn’t need to have lived my experiences. All Mads needed was to knowme, to love me, and to have my back. And he did all of that in spades.
So don’t be such a goddamn chickenshit.
I drew breath and pressed call, my heart rocketing into the stratosphere.
Chloe answered almost immediately, as if the phone was in her hand. Like she’d been waiting for me to call and was maybe as anxious as I was. “Hello?”
Her soft voice registered in my brain, and just like that, a memory popped up from my past.
“Hello? Earth to Nick?” My mother clicked her fingers in front of my face, drawing my attention from the tray of freshly baked Anzac biscuits sitting on the countertop. My mouth watered at the sweet aroma of rolled oats, butter, and golden syrup.
I met her eyes, frowning. “Huh?”
She smiled at my confusion. “I said, how about you grab a blanket and put it under the tree. Let’s have ourselves a picnic.”
Reality hit like a leaden punch to my stomach. “But—” I glanced toward the back door, my heart rate kicking up. “Won’t he be mad if he finds us?”
My mother’s eyes flashed with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. Whatever it meant, I’d been seeing a lot of it lately. “Your father won’t be home for at least a couple of hours.”
I gave a tiny nod, not convinced. My father always seemed to know when we broke the rules, like he had cameras watching us or something. What my mother was doing was dangerous.
Like she’d read my mind, my mother said, “Even if he does find out, I’ll deal with it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Not true. I heard the cries and saw the marks on her body.
I hated it.
Hated it.
“I baked these biscuits for you and me,” she continued happily. “For my favourite boy. Don’t you want some?”
I did, badly. And so I took her at her word and grabbed a blanket. We laid it under the ancient apple tree in the backyard and drank Fanta and ate biscuits until my tummy was so full I didn’t dare move.
As we lay there, Mum told me stories about her family and what I’d been like as a baby. She talked about her ownmother, what a great cook Nana had been and how much Mum missed her. Nana died when I was just a baby, and my grandad went not long after. I’d never known my father’s parents. Dad didn’t talk about them and he didn’t like my mother talking about hers. Mum said Dad’s weren’t nice people.
We ate biscuits and talked for an hour. It was one of the best afternoons of my childhood. And when the shadows gathered and we went inside, I filed it all away so that I could relive the memory when things got bad, like they always did.
As evening turned to night, I was almost convinced we’d got away with it. But then Dad came home and noticed a few wayward crumbs on the laundry floor. Mum sent me to my room before the shouting started.
I forgot about the picnic after that.
“Hello?” my mother repeated warily. “Nick? Is that you?”
I swallowed around the choking lump in my throat and managed, “Yes.”
“Oh.” Chloe went quiet, the deafening silence tearing at my resolve to see this thing through.
I wanted to hang up. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream at her for leaving me all those years ago. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lash out and hurt her. But most of all, I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want this...her... to mean anything to me. I didn’t want her to have this power in my life.
I didn’t want to feel anything, but especially not for her.
Yeah, about that.
Grown-up Nick could maybe box it up and file it away, but eight-year-old Nick had gone weak at the knees at the sound of his mother’s voice—mymother’s voice. Eight-year-old Nick was still desperate to be loved. He wanted to hear the words. Wantedto know it had all been a big mistake. Wanted to know what he’d done wrong all those years ago.
WhatI’ddone wrong.
He wanted to know . . . why.
