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In the kitchen, I settled Blake in a high chair before I opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. I poured a glass, took a long sip, and grimaced. Hadn’t I chastised Patrick this morning for putting a Band-Aid over his problems with alcohol?
Hypocrisy was apparently an inherited trait.
I yanked on a drawer pull, dug to the bottom of the junk piled inside, and found what I was looking for.
“Why did you leave us?” The image of my dead husband became blurry. “You always had to be the hero. Did you even think about us?” I sank to my knees, the tears I’d refused to shed bursting through the dam.
“I need you and you’re not here. You’re supposed to be here,” I shouted.
Blake wailed. I crawled over to him and picked him up, bawling into his hair. “Mommy isn’t supposed to do this. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Don’t cry.”
He clutched my shirt with his fists, tears soaking the fabric.
“Please. Don’t. Cry.” The words were warbled as I tried to gain control, failing miserably.
I shook violently, pained sounds escaping me.
“Marlow.” Patrick hit his knees in front of us. “What is it?” His eyes searched between Blake and me. “Is he sick?”
I only cried harder at the compassion on his face. He shifted to his rear and pulled both of us onto his lap. Strong arms enveloped us. Kisses landed on my hair.
“Talk to me, Wicked. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“How. Did. You. Get. In?” I choked out.
“The door was unlocked. You didn’t answer, so I came in.”
“Do you do that at everyone’s house?”
He smoothed matted hair back from my face. “No. Just yours. I thought it would annoy you.”
I hiccup-laughed.
“No more tears, buddy. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” He rubbed Blake’s back, but his eyes were on mine.
“Don’t make him promises like that,” I whispered.
“I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t.”
He pressed my head back to his chest. “Hush.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You don’t follow instructions well.” He kissed the top of my head. “I was a jackass earlier. You did something nice for me. I came to apologize . . . and hoped you’d cook for me again.”
I smacked him in the side. “Are you still drunk?”
“A little.”
I sniffled, though the waterworks had stopped. He picked up the picture of Jack.
“Every day like this or is this one particularly rough?”
There was no judgment in the question, though I detected an edge of something I couldn’t decipher.
“I feel like this on the inside every day. Most of the time I do a better job of holding it in.” It was a relief to admit that, even if it didn’t stop the brokenness.
