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Vincent Alek Adams was born on a stormy night. There was a power outage, and the darkness seemed fitting.
I crouch next to my sleeping son, and pressing a kiss to his cheek, I whisper, “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.”
He stretches as he turns onto his back, and when a smile spreads over his face, my heart clenches.
Vincent looks exactly like Alek. They have the same smile, the same eyes, the same mop of dark brown hair.
He even has the same golden flecks in his brown irises.
I don’t need a photo of Alek to remember him. I have his son.
There have been so many nights where I lie and fantasize that Alek finds us and we’re a happy family. But it’s only a dream because we can never be a part of his violent world.
I won’t put my son in that kind of danger.
A shiver rushes down my spine, and I suppress the traumatic memories I still haven’t processed.
I don’t think the nightmare I was subjected to can be dealt with, so I do my best to ignore it.
“I’m hungry, Mommy,” Vincent says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Let’s put all your toys away and go home.” I begin to gather his cars and building blocks, putting them in the bin in his little corner of the store.
I thought about placing him in a daycare center, but I couldn’t bear to be away from him for an entire day.
Where I go, Vincent goes.
Rising to my feet, I walk to the counter to grab my handbag, then hold my hand out to my little boy, “Come, baby. Time to go.”
He walks toward me as if he has all the time in the world, and I wait patiently. When his tiny hand slips into mine, I tighten my hold on him and walk to the front door.
We step out onto the sidewalk, and I lock up behind us.
“Heading home?” April asks from where she’s having a cigarette.
She’s a barista at the coffee shop next to my bookstore, Fiction Anonymous.
“Yeah. Have a good night.” I give her a smile before I walk toward the car.
April once asked me to go out for a girls' night with her, but I used Vincent as an excuse to decline the invitation. She’s friendly and always greets me, but I like my quiet life with my son, and there isn’t space for anyone else.
Opening the backdoor, I pick up Vincent and place him in his car seat. I strap him in and press a kiss to the top of his head before I shut the door.
When I climb in behind the steering wheel, I strap on my safety belt and ask, “What do you want to eat, baby?”
“Fish fingers.” He gives me a grin. “And ice cream.”
“You can have ice cream for dessert,” I say as I start the engine and pull away from the curb.
“Nooooo.”
“Yesssss.”
“No, I want both for dinner,” he argues.
“How about I make corn on the cob with the fish fingers?” I negotiate.
“Corn on the cob, fish fingers, and ice cream.” Vincent chuckles.
