To leave behind his mother and his monster.
I marvel at the quiet determination that has lived inside him from such a young age.
He keeps walking forward even when the road ahead is uncertain.
“I love you,” I whisper. “More than life itself, I love you.”
It’s not the first time I’ve told him this while he sleeps.
And it won’t be the last.
My gaze drifts toward the bedside table.
Marco’s planner rests there beside his phone and a small stack of books.
The cover is slightly worn at the edges from daily use.
I open it slowly, careful not to wake him.
Flipping to September third, I pause.
So far, the schedule for that week is fairly quiet. Impressively so.
Only one or two appointments and a few notes in the side column.
Marco is getting better at delegating.
I discover a thin black marker next to the water bottle.
Pulling the cap off with my teeth, it makes an unexpected pop.
Marco stirs, stretching his leg to one side.
Frozen in position, I wait.
In an empty corner, I sketch a handful of tiny stars.
They scatter across the margin and onto the next page.
I pause for a moment.
Then underneath them, I write a quote.
Something I remember reading years ago in a book.
A line that's echoed ever since the night of the storm.
These words resonate even more since our lake conversation.
For I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
Sarah. Sarah somebody.
Williams?
I let the ink dry, then close the planner gently.
Marco shifts further beneath the blanket.
