"You don't get to just plant yourself on my porch."
"You had my son," he replies, voice sharp now. "And you never told me. You think I'm going to leave because you closed a door in my face? I am not going anywhere until you tell me why."
There it is. The burn I have been waiting for. "Because it was a mistake," I snap, heat rushing up my throat. "Because that night was a mistake. Because you made it very clear where I ranked in your life when you left a note and walked away before I could even shower. I'm not going to raise a kid in a house where his father drops in between flights and deployments and decides he knows what's best for us."
"I never said he was a mistake," he growls.
"That's not what I meant." My voice cracks anyway. "I meant trusting you was. I was already raising him on my own just fine. I have been doing everything, every night, every diaper, every doctor's visit, every fever, every rent payment, and I wasn't doing it while wondering if you were flying over some ocean thinking, ‘She can do better than me,' like that excuse somehow makes leaving noble. Men love that line. ‘You deserve better.' All it means is ‘I don't want to stay.'"
He stares at me, eyes dark and wounded, chest lifting in slow, heavy breaths. For a second, I think he's going to argue, or shout, or walk away.
"Mama," Jace calls again, closer this time. "Is Gabe staying for lunch?"
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. My head starts to pound. "Go back to your food, baby," I call. "I'll be right there."
Silence from the kitchen. Then a tiny, hopeful, "Can he come in?"
Gabe's shoulders drop about an inch. His eyes soften in a way that tears at something I have spent years trying to stitch together.
"This is not about you," I tell him in a low voice. "You behave yourself. No raised voices. No guilt trips. No acting like you suddenly get a say in my life. I'm not forgiving you. I'm letting you meet him."
His throat works. "I'll take that."
I hate that the earnestness in his eyes almost reaches me.
I step back from the door. "Come in," I say, and the words taste strange.
He walks past me into the house. He looks huge in my narrow entryway. My space feels smaller around him, like the walls are pulling in. Jace is already standing on his chair in the kitchen, hands pressed on the table, eyes bright. "You came inside," Jace says.
Gabe's whole face shifts and softens. He actually smiles, wide and real, and I have to hold onto the back of a chair for balance. "Yeah, buddy," he answers. "Your mom said I could."
"You didn't eat your sandwich," Jace scolds. "You have to eat. Mama says food gives you power."
Traitor, I think at my own child.
Gabe glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Mama is right," he says. "Food does give you power."
Jace beams at me like I just won a prize. "See?"
Gabe sits slowly in the chair across from him, like he is approaching a live wire. Jace pushes the plate toward him, offering the half sandwich he left there. "You can have this," he says. "I'm full. I still have room for dessert, but Mama says dessert is a sometimes thing."
Gabe's throat moves again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I'll take good care of it."
He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. It's just ham and cheese. Grocery-store bread. Nothing special. The way he eats it, though, you'd think it might explode if he moves too fast.
I stand by the counter holding a dish towel, hands useless as I watch them. My son talking a mile a minute about his toy cars. Gabe nodding along, asking questions at just the right spots. "How many cars do you have?" "Which one is fastest?" "Do you line them up in a race?" His voice goes gentle without turning fake, and Jace leans toward him like plants do toward the sun.
After about ten minutes, Jace points both hands at him. "Do you want to see my room?" he asks. It comes out like an invitation and a challenge at once.
Gabe looks at me again, as if I'm holding the keys to the universe.
"Go ahead," I say. My voice is flat. My heart is not.
Jace grabs his hand and pulls. Gabe lets himself be dragged down the short hall to our shared bedroom. I follow at a slower pace, leaning on the doorway as Jace shows off his bed, his stuffed animals, the shelf of books, the basket of cars.
"This one is Thunder," Jace tells him, holding up the chipped red car. "He always wins. This one is Smoke. He likes to crash."
Gabe huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. "You gave them good names."
