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It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say.
I stared at his broad bare shoulders, not knowing how to respond. Remembering how protective he’d been of me, it was all too easy to imagine he would have been the same with his mother. ‘How old were you?’
He tilted the pan. ‘Four.’
My heart tightened. ‘You were four when he hit you?’
‘No, I was four when I started karate. I don’t remember when he first hit me but I do remember my mother pushing me into a cupboard to protect me and locking the door.’
My heart was pounding. The horror of it engulfed my like a grey, dirty wave. ‘She did that?’
‘She hid the key so he couldn’t get me, but he knocked her out and they took her to hospital without realizing I was in the cupboard.’ He reached for two plates and divided the omelette, as if we were talking about our plans for the summer, not something that had formed him.
‘How long were you in there?’
‘They kept her in the hospital overnight.’
I thought of him, four years old and trapped in the dark. I remembered what he’d said about not liking enclosed spaces and suddenly his choice of apartment made sense. Not just because it was above the business but because it was a collision of light and space. No one could ever feel trapped here. ‘What happened? Did your mother leave him?’
‘Eventually. Not soon enough. I was eleven. It wasn’t easy for her. She’d had a rough life and she saw him as security. He used that to manipulate her. He made her feel as if she wouldn’t be able to survive without him. In the end being without him was the only way she could survive.’ He handed me a plate and I took it without even looking at the food.
‘And she left you with him?’
‘She made the right choice. It was about survival.’
‘Were you angry with her for leaving you?’
‘No. I was relieved. The responsibility was crushing. It had got to the point where I was afraid to leave her alone in the house with him. It meant I only had myself to worry about.’
I tried to imagine how that must have felt, being a young boy and feeling responsible for the safety of your mother.
I looked at him. The food on my plate remained untouched.
I realized how little I’d known about him. How little I’d asked.
‘Where is your dad now?’
‘He died a few years ago. Cirrhosis, which was a surprise to no one given that his longest relationship was with the contents of a whisky bottle.’
‘And your mum?’
‘She’s safe. And happy. She met someone.’ His voice softened and I felt something squeeze inside me.
I wondered how he’d handled it so well.
He added a chunk of fresh bread to his plate but I shook my head when he offered me the same.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You need carbs.’
‘I’m not hungry.’ What he’d told me had taken away my appetite. ‘You never told me any of this.’
‘It was history by the time I met you.’
But it explained why he’d always seemed so strong and self-reliant. He’d had to be.
We took the plates back to bed and finished the food and the champagne.
