Chapter 13
Lucia
Three years is long enoughto build something that almost looks like stability. Long enough to learn which floorboard squeaks and which cupboard sticks and how many minutes I have between Nico’s daycare drop-off and my first client call before the day starts chewing through me.
It’s also long enough to forget, just for a second, that safety is not a state. It’s a practice. A routine. A fragile thing made of small choices and quiet luck.
And this morning, it cracks at the edges before I even have coffee in my system.
Nico is on the living room rug in his dinosaur pajamas, lining up his toy cars in perfect rows. Not just a line. Rows.
Color-coded, of course. Reds with reds. Blues with blues. The yellow ones in a neat little formation like they’re waiting for instructions. His tongue peeks out between his lips, a tiny crease between his brows as he adjusts one car by half an inch.
“Baby,” I say softly, stirring oatmeal at the stove. “Breakfast.”
He doesn’t look up. “Cars,” he says. Serious. Like it’s an appointment. Like this is work.
“I know,” I say, because I do. “But cars can eat after you do.”
He huffs a breath like I’ve insulted him and scoots one more car into alignment.
I plate the oatmeal, add the banana slices in the pattern he likes—a circle, not piled—and set his little bowl on the table. My own plate follows. Toast. A cracked egg. Something I pretend is a choice, not a calculation.
Nico climbs into his chair and folds his hands in his lap. He stares at his bowl. Doesn’t touch it.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice light even though I already feel the edge of impatience. “What’s the hold-up?”
He points at my plate. Then his. Then the empty chair where his stuffed bear usually sits.
My throat tightens around a sigh. “Bear,” I realize.
I grab Mr. Waffles from the couch and place him in the chair like a proper dinner guest.
Nico nods once, satisfied. Only then does he pick up his spoon. Every person has to have a plate first. That’s his rule. If anyone is missing, he won’t eat.
I tell myself it’s a toddler quirk. I tell myself it’s normal.
I don’t tell myself what it actually is.
Control.
A small ritual that makes the world feel predictable.
Because the world did not come wired that way for him. Because he inherited my nerves and… something else.
He eats in slow, careful bites while I pack his daycare bag: spare clothes, wipes, his water bottle, the little plastic dinosaur he insists on bringing for “company.” When I zip it closed, my phone rings. My business line. My stomach tightens automatically, because clients only call at 8:13 a.m. when they’re about to ruin your day.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and answer. “Lucia Cannata, hello.”
“Lucia, hi, it’s Meredith Grant.”
I don’t even have time to warm up to the name before dread prickles over my skin. Meredith is my biggest client this month. My biggest paycheck. My margin between “tight” and “not okay.”
“Hi, Meredith,” I say. “Everything on track for Saturday?”
A pause. Then, too brightly, “So… about that.”
I close my eyes. I already know.
