“You can’t just leave the house, bud.”
His shoulders sagged, but he didn’t look up.
“This is a very cool place.” I kept my tone even, willing myself to remain calm. “I know there are all kinds of exciting things to see. But you can’t wander off and not tell me.”
He nodded.
“I love you,” I said, squeezing his shoulders again. “All I want is to keep you safe.”
He threw his arms around my hips and squeezed me tight. “S-sorry.” He sniffled. “I just wanted to see the dog. I really like him. I think we could be friends.”
I nearly staggered back. That admission hit me square in the chest.
“He seems like a very nice dog. But I have to take you to see him.”
“But you were busy. You were doing that thing where you argue with yourself.”
For the first time since I stepped into his room, a thread of lightness wove through me. I almost let out a laugh. My kids loved to call me on my shortcomings, and they absolutely pointed out when I was having spirited debates in my own head.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I murmured.
He tilted his head back, his focus fixed on my shirt. “Are you worried about Dad?”
A wave of anguish hit me, and I kneeled and pulled him into my arms.
“No. I’m not worried about Dad at all. He’s in jail, where he belongs. He’s not a kind man. He’s sick.”
“Will jail make him better?”
“I don’t know, bud.” My lungs constricted. “But I know it’s the best place for him right now.”
I held him, tucking his head beneath my chin, until he wiggled out of my arms. Then I microwaved a bag of popcorn, sliced a cucumber, counted out eleven blueberries, and set him up in front of the TV while I recovered from this adventure.
Explaining to my kids that their dad was in jail and that I had put him there had been devastating. We’d had help from therapists, and I’d done a lot of my own research, learning special phrases to use in the hope of comforting them, but there was just no way to articulate to a six-year-old that his father was a piece of shit. That I hoped he rotted in prison for the rest of his miserable existence.
That he wasn’t redeemable. Not because of what he’d done to me, but because of what he’d done to Julian. I couldn’t close my eyes at the end of the day without reliving that night. The moment he struck my baby. Parts of me shattered right there and then. Along with the innocence that all three of my children still possessed. And we’d never get any of it back.
But we had to move on. It was up to me to rebuild their lives. I had to do better, be better. Give them all I could.
I settled Julian with his lunch in front of an episode ofOctonautsand made sandwiches for the girls. All the while, waves of shame rolled over me. Lashing out at Josh was unfair. I’d taken out my fear and panic on him. Yet it wasn’t his fault I carried so much trauma around with me and he didn’t deserve to suffer because of it.
Each time our interaction replayed, I was even more certain I’d been wrong. Maybe he was an ass, but regardless, I’d lost the plot.
After giving the girls strict instructions to sit next to Julian and keep eyes on him until I returned, I picked up my phone and headed back to that barn. I was a big girl, and I’d take responsibility for my fuck-ups.
I’d just closed the door behind me when the sound of boots on gravel caught my attention. He strode toward the cottage, sweaty and looking annoyed in his damn hat.
At the sight, my stomach did a weird little flip that I refused to acknowledge.
“I was coming to apologize.” I crossed my arms, setting a boundary between us.
He stopped a few feet from the porch, his lips turned down.
I eased down a few steps, putting us eye to eye.
“I was also coming to apologize.” He gritted the words out like they tasted badly and dug the toe of one of his work boots into the dirt.
A flare of annoyance flashed inside me, he couldn’t even let me apologize? But I forced the emotion away and steered back to my plan.
