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Right Where I Left You

Page 11

by L. Beckett

I put it on speaker and hand the phone over.

Theo grabs it with both hands. “Mama,” he breathes, and that’s all it takes for the waterworks to start.“I wanna come home.”

I close my eyes for a second.

On the other end, Blaire’s voice shifts into that calm, steady tone she uses when he’s spiraling. “Baby, you are home. You’re at Daddy’s house.”

“I miss you,” he sobs.

“I miss you too. But you’re going to have so much fun tonight. Are you helping Daddy make dinner?”

He shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. “No. I wanna come now.”

This is the part that guts me every time.

“I wanna sleep at Mama’s.” he cries harder.

Blaire pauses on the other end. “Buddy,” she says gently, “it’s Daddy’s night tonight. You’ll see me in a few days, okay?”

He pushes the phone back toward me, fully crying now.

I take it. “I’ve got him,” I say quietly.

“I can come get him,” she offers immediately.

I swallow and look down at Theo, who’s clinging to my thigh and sobbing into my pant leg.

“No,” I say after a second. “We’re okay. He’s just tired.”

“Okay,” she says softly. “Call me if you need to.”

“I will.”

We hang up and I crouch down to hold Theo.

He buries his face into my shoulder, small hands gripping my shirt. “Want Mama.”

“I know, buddy,” I say, rubbing his back slowly. “You’ll see her tomorrow. It’ll be okay.”

This is just how he gets sometimes. He does the same thing at Blaire’s—cries for me at bedtime, asks when he can come to my house. We used to give in and switch early whenever he got upset, but as he’s gotten older, we’ve tried to stick to the schedule. Stability matters more than temporary comfort, at least that’s what the therapist said. Consistency builds security.

Doesn’t make it easier to watch.

I know this feeling. Blaire doesn’t—not really. Her parents are still together. But I remember packing a bag to go to my dad’s place, and lying in bed there wishing I was at my mom’s.

I remember promising myself that if I ever had a kid, they’d never have to split themselves like that, and every day, it crushes something in me that I failed.

“How about we go to the park? Get some energy out. Then we can grab dinner out tonight.”

He sniffles. “Tacos?”

I can’t help but smile. “Sure, buddy. We can get tacos.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes still watery.

“And maybe ice cream after,” I add.

His lip wobbles once more, but the storm is starting to pass.