“Mommy! Look!” It’s a scribble of lines and shapes and what I think might be a car.
“It’s beautiful,” I say instantly, because it is. Because it’s him.
He slips his small hand into mine, and I feel the familiar squeeze in my chest. This is what I chose. This is why I keep moving even when my legs feel like they’re made of glass.
At home, I make pasta. His favorite. I butter it lightly and add parmesan in the exact amount he prefers. Enough to coat, not enough to clump.
We eat at the table with Mr. Waffles sitting in his chair again, a full plate placed in front of him because rules are rules. Nico twirls his pasta with intense concentration, brows pinched, tongue peeking out again.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Do I have a daddy?” he asks like it’s nothing.
The fork slips in my hand. Just enough that the clink against the plate sounds like a gunshot in my nervous system. My heart stops. Then starts again too fast.
I keep my face calm. I keep my voice soft. I do not let him see the way the world tilts.
“Where did that come from?” I ask lightly.
He shrugs one shoulder. A tiny mimic of adult indifference.
“Leo has a daddy,” he says. “He picks him up. He’s big.”
Of course. Of course it’s innocent. Of course it’s just daycare politics and small children comparing their worlds the way adults compare bank accounts.
My throat tightens, anyway. Because there is no safe answer. Because the truth is a grenade. And lies are a slippery slope I’ve already spent years sliding down in a different life.
I reach across the table and tuck a curl behind Nico’s ear. He leans into my touch without thinking.
“Your daddy…” I start carefully, choosing words like I’m stepping over broken glass. “He’s far away, sweetie.”
Nico’s eyes go wide. “Far like… space?”
A laugh threatens to break out of me, sharp and sudden and almost hysterical. I swallow it down.
“Not space,” I say. “Just… far.”
He considers this with the seriousness of a tiny judge. His fingers go behind his ear again, a small rub like he’s thinking hard. Then he nods once, satisfied.
“Okay,” he says, and goes back to his pasta like he’s accepted an answer and filed it neatly away for later review.
My hands shake under the table. I keep eating. I keep breathing. I keep smiling.
Because that’s what mothers do.
We carry the weight so our children don’t have to.
* * *
That night, after bath time and books and Nico insisting on “one more” hug that turns into three, I tuck him in. His cheeks are warm, lashes fanned dark against his skin. He looks peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache. Safe. As safe as I can make him.
I stand in his doorway for a long moment, watching his small hand curl around Mr. Waffles like a lifeline. Then I close the door softly.
And the quiet of the house hits me like a wave. My kitchen light hums. The heater clicks. The world feels too empty. Too exposed.
I go to my laptop. I tell myself I’m checking for jobs. I tell myself I’m looking for clients. I tell myself I’m doing what I always do. Building, patching, surviving.
