"Yes," I say. "Did you?"
He nods, spooning cereal with the careful intensity of a scientist. "I dreamed I was a pirate."
Of course you did. I lean down and kiss his head. He smells like toothpaste and something bright, like summer sun on a new notebook. If I could bottle it, I'd wear it for armor.
"Mummy," he says, pushing his hair off his forehead, "is my hair ever going to be blond like Dad's?"
The question nearly undoes me. Carter's hair is blond, always perfectly styled. But Amauri's isn't. It's dark, heavy, with a stubborn wave that defies every brush and comb. He doesn't know how close he comes, every day, to the edge of a different truth.
I smile, the way I've taught myself to. "It's genetics, honey. Your grandpa had dark hair when he was young."
"And my eyes?" He studies me with a seriousness that makes him look older than his almost ten years. "Dad's eyes are blue. Yours are green."
I want to tell him he's made of every secret I've ever buried. That before politics and wheelchairs and carefully staged photographs, there was a different life. A different man. A different future.
I want to tell him the truth about the night everything split in two. That he was born from a love I wasn't allowed to keep. That there was a man once who would have burned cities for him, or so I thought. That the world rearranged itself in one night, and I've been living in the wreckage ever since.
Not here, not now, not ever.
"Maybe one of our ancestors was a dark pirate a long time ago," I tease. "Ask your grandma. She knows all the stories."
He laughs, and the tension in my chest loosens just a little. He moves on to talk about his day, about the spelling test, and the kid in his class who says bad words. He is a good kid. He fills all the cracks in my life without even knowing.
I watch him, this boy who is more mine than anyone else's in the world, and for a moment, I almost believe in the lie of the family we've built. But the moment passes, and the truth seeps in like cold water: Amauri is already more of a man than Carter ever was.
How he gets himself ready without complaint. How he watches, listens, and adapts, calibrating his responses to the moods that animate our house, the silences and sharpness that form our family grammar. The way his eyes sweep a room before he enters, as if scanning for a threat or an opportunity, some evolutionary leftover from a lineage that's always had to watch its back. I see it. I see him learning every day how to move through a world that isn't built for the truth of who he is. I see it, and I love him harder for it.
I don't think about the lie holding all of this together. How every smile and bedtime story and lunchbox love note is mortared with silence, with what I don't say, with what I swear I'll never say. I don't think about the DNA, the inheritance, the man whose shadow brushes the edge of my son's face every time he laughs or wrinkles his little face in concentration.
I watch him walk toward his backpack, his posture a study in small confidence, straight-backed, steady, chin up but not arrogant, not yet. There's a grace to it, something practiced, even though no one taught him. He's already his own person, already in on the cosmic joke that everyone else is faking it too, that the world is mostly bluster and bluff. He smiles at me over his shoulder, and for a terrifying second, I wonder what will happen when Massimo finally notices him. What if he comes looking? What if Amauri, by just existing, calls him back across the years, across the secrets I've hidden in plain sight?
He opens his backpack, then looks up at me, the way he does every morning, and says, "You forgot your coffee again."
I blink. He's right, a full mug, still steaming, sits untouched on the counter. I cross the kitchen, ruffle his hair—he ducks, grinning—and pretend it was all part of the plan. "What would I do without you?" I ask.
"Probably die," he deadpans, but then he laughs, because he knows my father would never let that happen. For him, the world is still a good place.
I work very hard to keep it that way. I curate the illusion: the loving grandfather, the devoted father, the tidy family narrative that fits neatly into school forms and Christmas cards. Though I don't know how much longer I'll be able to.
He's getting older. Smarter. Observant in ways children aren't supposed to be yet. One day, he'll notice that the new teddy bear wasn't from Dad. It was from me. That Grandpa insists on photos not because he wants memories, but because he wants material. That Carter's smile only appears when a camera does.
He already senses the distance. I've seen it in the way he watches other fathers in the park, how they kneel, how they laugh, how they throw footballs until their shoulders ache. Oneday, he'll understand that Carter doesn't refuse to throw the ball because he can't. He refuses because he won't.
He'll figure out that missing the school play wasn't about illness. Or meetings. Or responsibility. It was about interest. Unless I called the press. Unless I dangled optics. Which I have done. I'm not proud of it. But if a photographer means his father shows up and claps, I will make the call.
I just can't always make it work. The other parents already resent the extra cameras in the hallway. The principal smiles too tightly when a news van pulls up. I can't manufacture love. I can only stage attendance. And one day, he'll know the difference. "I'll be ready in ten," I tell Amauri, squinting at the clock. "Homework check. No excuses."
"Yes, Mummy," he says solemnly, already pulling out a notebook like it's a contract he intends to honor. His sense of responsibility is relentless; that, at least, is something he has in common with Carter. He's trying so hard to catch hisfather'sattention, it hurts my heart every time.
I bolt upstairs, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, already thinking two hours ahead. I have precisely twelve minutes to make myself presentable. The shower is hot and brutal, punishment and reward all at once. I don't bother with my hair; there's no time. The mirror is fogged over, mercifully, so I don't have to see myself while I scrub. The routine is so second-nature that I can do it without thinking: moisturizer, a swipe of concealer under the eyes, mascara thick enough to create a shield, lipstick a shade too bold for the office, but I need the armor today. But when I put the deodorant on, I pause. Underneath my bra, the black-and-red lines of my tattoo poke out. I still.
I haven't gone down this particular rabbit hole in years.
Gently, I touch the black ink first, then the red. My finger traces over the letterFfor forever, the only one visible rightnow. The skull and the rose. Somewhere here in Vegas is a man wearing the other part of this tattoo. Does he think of me sometimes when he looks at it, too? Or has he forgotten me completely? I blink back a tear. He's the only person in the whole world who knows about this tattoo. The only one who matters.Ten years, I think.Ten years, and the pain is still as fresh as the dayheleft me.
Resolutely, I pull a blouse over my head, dressing for war. A pencil skirt comes next. Then high heels that force me to walk with purpose. I slip my wedding ring on last, a ritual I refuse to skip. It's a reminder. A reminder of all the lies my life has become.
In the hallway, I yell, "Purse… keys… I'm forgetting something… phone… what am I forgetting?" In the doorway, I stop, theatrical in my stance, and pretend to slap my forehead. "Oh, right. There should be a kid here somewhere."
