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“Let’s remember to take your dirty shoes off before you come inside, buddy,” I said, pulling him against my side into a hug. I’d been rushing to get the house ready so we could leave for the library and playground, but it wasn’t worth making him scared. “Maybe you can help me mop.”
“Okay.”
He clung to me a little too tightly, the way he always did after I’d scared him. I wondered what my face had looked like when the thought of redoing all that work, and the consequences if Nathan came home to filthy shoe prints, hit me. The possibility he might hurt Dylan–worse than my scolding ever would–made my throat close up.
I dropped to my knees and hugged Dylan tight. I wanted to tell him he was safe, but I was always scared to make promises to him, because Nathan made me wonder if I could keep them. Instead, I just murmured, “I love you so much. You’re the best, kindest boy in the world.”
If Nathan killed me before I could kill him, I hoped Dylan would remember those words, that he’d be a kind boy who grew into a kind man, despite the toxic men who surrounded him.
“You’re the best mommy,” Dylan whispered into my ear, and I stood with him, hugging him tight.
He wrapped his legs around my waist, and I carried him as I put the mop bucket under the tap and began to fill it again, then added the suds. I gave him a ratty towel, and as I mopped, he followed behind me with the towel, drying the floor.
When we were done, I changed into a dress and ballet flats and checked that my hair and makeup looked fine. Nathan had lost his mind once when Dylan was a baby because the pack had seen me with a messy bun and spit-up dribbled over my shoulder.
I grabbed my brown-and-camel Louis Vuitton bag from the white lockers in the mudroom, threw it over my shoulder, and took both of our jackets out to my new, top-of-the-line minivan. I liked the car, but I hated that Nathan thought we were going to fill it with our children.
Dylan was enough. Dylan was perfect.
And I could barely protect him, anyway.
The thought pressed against my chest like a stone weighing me down, and for a second, I could barely breathe.
“Mommy?” Dylan asked, and I realized I’d frozen in the middle of fastening his car seat straps. I had panic attacks sometimes, and I was terrified of having them in front of Dylan.
Strangely enough, being panicked by the possibility of a panic attack was not super helpful.
“Yes, honey?” I asked, pretending I had no idea what he was asking, and kissed his forehead. I inhaled the clean scent of his shampoo as I breathed in, breathed out, trying to ground myself in the moment.
It looked like I had everything. A beautiful home, an expensive wardrobe, a powerful husband. But I had nothing except Dylan.
And Nathan thought Dylan was his, just like he stole everything else.
No one would feel sorry for me.Poor little rich girl. Ungrateful bitch. Weak manipulative lying wife. Failure of a mother.The voice in my head shouting about my worthlessness wasn’t mine, exactly, but it wasn’tnotmine either.
“We’re going to have fun today,” I said brightly, kissed Dylan’s forehead one last time before I slid into the smooth leather of the driver’s seat.
“Are we going to see Grandma? Uncle Aiden and Aunt Rose?”
“Maybe.” I was glad he couldn’t see my face. “But we’re definitely going to the park.”
He cheered from the back seat, and I smiled in the rearview mirror at him. I rolled through the Starbucks drive-through and bought an iced coffee, then we pulled into the parking lot at the playground.
“Fifteen minutes of Mommy, then I get a break,” I reminded him as we got out of the car. Fifteen minutes of Mommy, then it was my chance to plot.
I pushed him on the tire swing until it was the end of my shift then headed to a park bench. I was sipping my iced coffee when someone touched my shoulder from behind.
I choked, feeling like icy fingers had run up my spine, as Lawson stepped to my side. “Hey, Amy.”
“Lawson,” I said, unable to stop my heart from pounding. I was irrationally angry with him. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
He stared at me, abashed, his deep brown eyes widening. The sight took me back to when we were both kids. When Lawson was my wide-eyed, freckled-faced best friend, and we ran barefoot down to the creek or played in his treehouse for hours. When we were together, my childhood had felt carefree.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right.”
He didn’t come sit beside me on the bench like he would have once upon a time. Instead, he stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.
Lawson’s nieces, five-year-old Molly and eight-year-old June, ran to hug Dylan. Dylan grinned as he dove and wound around the swing set, avoiding their hugs, which only caused them to try harder. I smiled at the sight. He wasn’t avoiding touch for the same dark reasons I was. Hopefully he never would.
