“No more movies without my permission from your parental ...whatever I am today.”I try to sound like a very responsible adult.See, I’m kicking ass at this whole parenting ...I think.
I clear my throat, trying to summon a version of adulthood I’m allegedly supposed to have mastered by now.“It’s just a lawyer.Something about my aunt, that’s all.Don’t read too much into it.”
I aim for casual—light, breezy, totally unbothered.Honestly, I’m killing it ...Okay, not really.When I say it out loud, it sounds like someone auditioning for the role of Woman Who Has Her Act Together and not quite making callbacks.
Though, this is me.I’ve been playing that part sincehedied—this strange balance between performing and rebuilding, trying to create a new version of myself that isn’t made of all the cracked pieces I left behind.If I pretend long enough, maybe the performance will stick.Maybe I won’t crumble.Maybe the world won’t see how hollow certain places still feel.
As long as Mila believes me, it’s all good, though.
I’ve been doing great.Ever since I sold our house, I haven’t cried.Not once.Not when I packed his mug and store it with the rest of our things.Not when I donated his shirts.Not when I passed the street where he used to pick up pastries on Saturday mornings.Emotions drift through me but never stay long enough to take shape.
Well—except for Mila and the love I have for my precious daughter.She lives in the part of me that still works.
Ariadne says she always knows when I’m faking it.Apparently, my eyebrows give me away.
Traitors.
Mila narrows her eyes.“So which aunt is this?The one with the creepy crystal collection?Or the one who thought Wi-Fi was witchcraft?”
“You’ve never met this one,” I say, and something inside me tugs—unexpected, almost nostalgic—as a memory slips in.Lina dancing barefoot in our living room to ABBA, hair flying, jean shorts frayed at the edges, sun-warm skin glowing like she owned the whole summer.She’d grab my hands and spin me until we were both dizzy, her laughter bright enough to drown out anything that hurt.“She’s ...complicated.”
“Ah,” she says knowingly.“The one Grandma callsher.I had no idea her name was Lina.”
“Yep.That one.”I exhale and reach toward the laptop, resisting the urge to explain that in my family, we deal with hurt by stopping the use of names—like forgetting someone on purpose somehow protects us.It’s probably an awful habit, but it’s stitched into me all the same.“I should probably call your grandmother.She’ll know what’s going on.”
Mila closes her workbook with a dramatic thud.“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out,” I say, trying to sound breezy, not sure why she’s acting like I am.
“Umm, you just drank cold coffee on purpose—twice.”
...okay, maybe I’m freaking out a little, but I refuse to let the universe know that.I will not give fate, destiny, or a random lawyer the satisfaction.
My specialty is pretending I have my life buttoned up, even when it’s dangling by a thread and caffeine.I smile through things.I sunshine my way through disasters.I have absolutely spiraled in airport bathrooms—but quietly.With dignity...Kind of.
I straighten my shoulders like posture alone could convince both of us I’m fine.“I am perfectly calm,” I announce with the confidence of someone who absolutely is not.
Mila gives me a skeptical glance.“You’re gripping the mouse like it committed a crime.”
I blink down at my hand.
Nothing gets past this child.Nothing.
She’s right, though.
The poor mouse is wedged in my palm, my knuckles pale enough to qualify as their own distress signal.I loosen my grip, place it down gently—like maybe that small act will somehow convince the universe I have my life together.It doesn’t.The poor thing still looks traumatized.
“See?”I try again, waving my hand toward the screen full of unanswered emails.“Totally calm.”
Mila tilts her head.“Mom, your eye is twitching.”
For fucks sake.Even my eye is giving me away now.I try to blink it back into cooperation, but then I glance at the email again—and that’s when I feel it.A shift.The warning in my stomach.The unmistakable sense that everything is about to tilt in a direction I did not schedule, plan for, or mentally prepare to survive.
It hits me with the same cold jolt I felt the day my world broke, and I had to rebuild myself into ...whatever version of me exists now.The patched-together one.The one who keeps moving because stopping isn’t an option.
