The day is bright but crisp, one of those late spring afternoons where the sunlight feels warm against your skin while the cool breeze slips under your clothes and makes you wish you’d thought to bring a thicker sweater.
A dozen other kids shriek and laugh across the playground, but my focus stays trained on Leo. On the fragile, precious life that somehow came from mine.
“You’ve been quiet all morning.”
My eyes shift from the playground for a brief second when Lettie nudges me with her shoulder. Her scarf is pulled tight around her neck, strands of her dark hair catching in the wind.
“I’m fine,” I tell her automatically, because that’s what I always say. It’s muscle memory now, that word.Fine.
She doesn’t even blink, just gives me a long, flat look. “You know that doesn’t work on me, right?”
I try for a smile, something light to brush her off. “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Lettie narrows her eyes. “That’s the third time this week you’ve said that.”
Ugh.
I shrug, my gaze darting back to Leo as if he can shield me from the weight of her attention. He’s hanging upside down from the monkey bars now, his shirt riding up to show a flash of pale skin. His laughter carries, bright and happy.
“You’re doing it again,” Lettie says softly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at him like he’s going to disappear on you.”
I don’t respond, because if I open my mouth, something dangerous might come spilling out, something I can’t take back. Something likeYou’re right. Every time I see Leo climb too high, run too far, laugh too freely, I’m terrified someone will take him from me the way Maksim was taken.
Lettie doesn’t push. Not yet, at least. She just watches me with that steady, patient gaze of hers, the one that always makes me feel both seen and cornered at the same time.
I hate that I’m doing this, pushing her away when she’s the one who’s always been there since I came home. But what am I supposed to say? That I’ve been thinking about the man I loved who died before he ever met his son? That I still feel his ghost haunting me like a bruise I can’t stop pressing and making bleed, that I’m afraid the ache of missing him is going to swallow me whole?
I can’t dump that on her again. I’ve already bared too much over the years, already leaned on her one too many nights when my son was crying and I was shaking with exhaustion. I’m sure she’s tired of hearing me circle the same wound over and over, reopening it because I don’t know how to let it heal.
So instead, I force myself to focus on Leo.
He’s hanging from the jungle gym with both hands, feet swinging wildly, hair shining pale gold under the sunlight. He’s grinning so wide his cheeks dimple, shouting something to another kid who doesn’t quite catch it but laughs anyway. His joy is loud and unapologetic.
I let my eyes follow him, alive and whole and mine.
“See?” I mutter, mostly to myself. “He’s fine.”
We spend another hour at the park, drifting from the swings to the grass, playing tag until I’m breathless and Leo is giggling so hard he can barely run in a straight line. By the time we finally slow down, the shadows from the setting sun are starting to stretch long across the playground, bleeding into the mulch and curling around the corners of the slide.
“Alright, let’s head home.”
He groans, loud and dramatic.
I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, keeping him tucked against me while we head back over to the bench to collect my sister. Together, we grab our things and head to the gate surrounding the park.
That’s when I feel it.
It’s subtle at first—just a prickling at the back of my neck, a sensation in the air that has shifted, a quiet warning humming softly. I straighten without meaning to. My gaze sweeps the park.
Parents are gathering up their kids, chatting in little clusters. A couple walks past with a golden retriever trotting between them, its tail swishing lazily. Teenagers loiter near the basketball court, laughing too loudly.
Nothing unusual.
And yet… the feeling doesn’t go away.
