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Chapter Nineteen- Emma
I don't think I'll ever get used to having my every move watched. I know our assigned guard is standing outside of the bedroom, listening for any signs that I might try to escape. I should be thankful for the bits of privacy, like the fact that they don't enter our bedroom, but it's hard to be thankful for something that should be a basic right. Besides the guard, I know that there is a camera trained at the spot right outside the window, in case I got the temptation to slip out.
“Mama?” Matteo says while I’m helping him get dressed for the day. Although he’s been up since seven in the morning and we’re entering the afternoon, it’s the first word he has spoken all day. Being quiet is nothing new for him. He’s the one to think before he speaks. Still, the prolonged silence is odd, even for him. I’m wondering what his little mind has been working on.
Enzo left at the first crack of dawn. True to his word, he slept on the couch in the guest room Matteo and I have been staying in. I worried, at first, that it would keep Matteo from being able to sleep, having someone in the room who he wasn’t used to. He’s gotten more comfortable with Enzo than I realized. He asked me why Enzo was staying in our room, and I told him we were having a sleepover, and then he went to bed without a problem.
Now I’m wondering if he had a problem and didn’t tell me.
“Yes?” I say, inviting him to say more.
“I don’t want to go see grandpa. He says mean things about Enzo.”
This stills me. It isn't that I'm dumb enough to believe that my father would keep his opinion to himself. Quite frankly, he could take a few lessons from Matteo in thinking before he speaks. Enzo may be our captor, but to Matteo, he has been nothing but kind. Bad-mouthing the man he's coming to look up to will only damage their relationship in the long run.
Something that I've noticed Enzo already knows. Even if he has to bite his tongue until it bleeds, he never says anything bad about my father around Matteo. Instead of focusing on the man he's talking about, he simply enjoys the time that Matteo chooses to spend with him.
“Oh baby,” I say as I pull him into my arms. “You don’t have to go see your grandpa if you don’t want to. You never have to see someone you don’t want to.”
“Except the doctor?”
I chuckle. Of course, that’s what he thinks about at this moment. “Yes, honey. Sometimes we have to see the doctor when we don’t want to.”
He accepts my words and goes back to playing with his toys in front of him. My heart clenches. I’m going to have to talk to my father about not speaking badly about people in front of my child. The last thing I need is for him to learn how to be a bully.
I’ve spent the last several years trying to balance between pleasing my father and getting back in his good graces, and living life for myself. Often I’ve felt like I’ve stretched myself thin trying to be two different people. I’ve sacrificed a lot of myself to make up for the things I wasn’t willing to sacrifice to be the daughter he wants me to be.
I’m not willing to sacrifice my son. He deserves to have peace in his life. If my father makes him uncomfortable, then I won’t force him to be around my father to make him happy.
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Am I supposed to know Enzo is my daddy?”
I freeze and glance at Matteo. He hasn’t bothered to stop playing with his toys. He continues to build a building using the Lego set Alice picked up for him the other day. She learned the way to his heart quickly. Most of his favorite toys, including his favorite Lego sets, are still back in our house in Kansas. Eventually, we'll have to find a way to get them here.
“Why do you think Enzo is your daddy?” I ask him, choosing my words carefully so I neither confirm nor deny the truth of his words.
“Because he said it. When we were in the car with him.”
This time he looks at me, and the look on his face tells me how dumb he thinks I’m being. I remember the incident. I was hoping Matteo somehow didn’t. Matteo is too smart to let something like that pass him without questioning it first. When he didn’t bring it up for the first couple of days, I figured he had been too tired that morning to understand what was happening. Jokes on me.
It isn’t like I was planning on keeping it a secret forever. I know once he knows Enzo is his father, he’s going to have more questions than I have the answers to. His questions are never nonsensical. He always expects reasonable answers. When he was three, and his inquisitive nature had worn me out, I had tried to give him silly answers. He wasn’t pleased. Now, he practically expects his answers to come printed in a size 12 font with APA citations. I’ve had professors who accept weaker answers than him.
“You can know Enzo is your daddy.”
I brace myself for the questions, but they don’t come.
Tomorrow, Enzo wants to take me shopping. He hasn’t told me for what yet, but I turn my mind to the things we need to be settle in comfortably until we can get the rest of our things. When I relax, he calls for me again.
“Mama?”
I brace myself, not sure that I can handle much more from my overly observant child today. What is he going to call me out on next? The reverent expression I can't seem to wipe from my face every time I see him with his father? The fact that we're both happier here than we ever were back in Kansas?
“Yes, dear?” I say cautiously.
“Am I supposed to call him daddy? Or Enzo?”
