It hasn't been long, but he seems older. Calmer. Adjusted in a way that should comfort me but doesn't, because it means he's learned to be here without me.
Does he think I've abandoned him?
How do I tell a five-year-old that my absence isn't a choice without terrifying him with the truth?
That's another thing I've learned as a mother: how to sacrifice myself to protect his innocence.
He bites the edge of his lower lip as he concentrates, a small unconscious habit he's had for as long as I can remember.
My masked shadow steps into the room carefully, almost like he's in a daze. I think he's coming toward me, but then I realize his eyes are locked on Hale.
He comes to a stop and just stands there, staring at my son like he's looking at a ghost.
This isn't the intensity of a man who's supposed to be on watch or scanning for threats.
Then his demeanor shifts. His hand twitches at his side like he's stopping himself from reaching out, and when he glances over at me, it's abrupt…like he's been caught. He straightens, steps back against the wall near the library doors, and goes still again.
I don't know what that was, and I don't care to find out.
When I finally sit across from Hale, I keep my hands folded in my lap, careful not to reach too much, not to press too hard. My palms still ache if I grip anything too tightly.
We don't get much time, so I soak up every second.
When the nanny comes to take him, Hale cries. He pulls on my shirt, fists tight in the fabric, refusing to let go.
"Please, Mamma. Don't leave again."
The words cut right through me.
I try to hold myself together. Try to smile. Try to tell him something comforting, something brave. Something a mother is supposed to say in moments like this.
Nothing comes out right.
My face collapses before I can stop it. The tears spill anyway, hot and useless, and I hate myself for letting him see them. I hate that I can't be strong for him when it matters most.
My chest feels like it's caving in. Like if I don't get out of this room soon, I'll fold in half and disappear into the floor.
The nanny steps in gently, murmuring reassurances I barely hear. She lifts Hale into her arms, and he starts screaming—arms reaching out to me, confused and terrified in a way no child should ever be.
"It's okay, baby. I promise. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," I call out. "I love you so much."
I just stand there while he's carried away, my hands lifting too late, my body locked in place as his cries echo outside the library.
When the door finally closes, the silence is gut-wrenching.
I sink forward, pressing my palms over my mouth, breathing through the sobs so they don't turn loud. So no one hears how completely I'm coming apart.
This is what real loneliness feels like. Not being alone, but being powerless while the only thing you love most is taken from you.
"Madame."
I forgot he was here.
"Leave me alone."
There's a pause. Then he exhales heavily. "I can't."
I turn, and his eyes meet mine. That same furious burn from the other night is there again, like he's trying to hold himself back.
