AJ shakes his head, unconvinced. This kid is already beating himself up emotionally and physically over this. It might only be small anxiety reactions right now, but it’s still self-harm. He doesn’t have the facts or the emotional maturity to see none of this is his fault.
“Think about it. Whose foot is bigger? Yours or Daddy’s?”
“My feet are bigger than T’s, but Daddy’s are bigger than mine.” AJ answers matter-of-factly.
“Exactly! So, if Daddy stomped me, it would bereallybad, right?”
“Yes!” TJ agrees, happy in his realisation. AJ shrugs.
I continue to make sure AJ releases his guilt. “So, which was better, you stomping or Daddy stomping?”
“Us,” AJ mumbles.
“Yes, you,” I agree. “And you two stomped carefully; hard, but not too hard. So, it didn’t hurt,” I lie, “But Daddy would have stomped until my arm was flat as a pancake.” I wiggle my arm likeit’s boneless and both boys giggle.Good.
“And then you’d not be able to hold your spoon!” TJ adds, pointing at the spoon in my float.
“That’s right!” I agree.
“Or give us cuddles.” AJ adds.
God! I’m out of my seat and throwing my arms around the pair of them. I squeeze until they both huff in irritation and only then do I let go of them.
Everything hurts. I’m so close to crying, there are already pools in my eyes, but the kids need my smiles. I stroke my thumb over a glob of strawberry sauce on AJ’s cheek.
“No more hurting yourself, kiddo.” I nod at his wrist.
AJ stares at the red scratches, but he nods.
“I know that inside…” I tap my chest. “…your feelings are big, and they hurt. You feel bad.” He nods again. His eyes water. “I feel it too. I feel bad because Daddy made you do that, and it was my fault. But you know what? When your heart hurts like that, it’s because you care very,verymuch. It’s because you know what is right and what is wrong.”
Both boys watch me.
“And someone who cares is agoodperson.” I take a deep breath. “Sometimes loving and protecting others might hurt a little too, and that’s okay. Just keep listening to your hearts and doing good things. We need to be strong and brave, and sometimes we make tough decisions to protect each other, okay?”
I get a chorus of okay’s, including one from Casey who stares at as all looking a little confused. I blow a raspberry kiss on her cheek and stand up, unaware of our audience.
“Wise words.”
I spin like a top. One quick about-turn, and find Dax smiling at me with my mother, hunched-shoulders and eyes to the floor, hiding behind him.
I ignore Dax. I’m more surprised at my mother’s presence here. “Why aren’t you at work? You have at least two hours of yourshift to go. What happened?”
“You happened,” Mum whispers, and it feels like a slap. Dax grunts and Mum finally looks up, seemingly only just noticing her whereabouts. She scans the kids first, lingering overly long on Casey, and once she’s satisfied they’re okay, she looks at me. I hold still, making sure she sees it all. I’m done hiding my bruises from her.
She’s right, I suppose.I happened. It wasn’t her decision to leave; it was mine. My choices today may have jeopardised everything she’s tried to protect for years. Except, the things worth protecting are all here, eating ice cream and relying on strangers playing saviours. Whatever bubble she was living in blew apart years ago, it just took until today for us to notice.
“What happened to your hands?” she asks, ignoring all the rest. She knows exactly how I got the bruises. I question whether to tell her. I’d rather not tell everyone in the parlour, but if I’m done hiding from her, then I guess I’m done covering up for him too.
“Bleach,” I tell her. “He made me cup my hands and kneel holding bleach until my hands burned.” I feel rather than see Dax’s reaction to my confession. His energy shifts instantly. The anger radiating off him is like heat.
“What did you do?” she accuses, like I must have done something atrocious to have brought that upon myself.
God. That stings worse than the bleach. Doesn’t she know by now, nothing I could do or say would deserve that kind of punishment? I try to form the words to tell her, but Aiden strides in, places a paper bag on the table and tells her for me.
“She brought home groceries.”
“I don’t understand,” Mum barks.
