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Their house remained his husband’s fortress. The only person tolerated on the premises was their housekeeper, Margarita, who was there three days a week.
When Rian moved in after the wedding, the woman was kind but distant. For the first couple of years, Rian could hardly recall them having any conversations besides the formal greeting and passing on instructions about meals for upcoming events.
Her quiet demeanor and efficient work had guaranteed her steady, well-paid employment for decades. Rian couldn’t blame her for keeping her mouth shut and focusing on doing her job, even if sometimes he wondered if she really couldn’t see his bruises or simply chose to ignore them.
On those days, after a particularly bad beating, they were both extra quiet. Margarita tried, without invading his space too much, to bring him things of comfort – favorite lunch, something refreshing to drink in his office in the house, a new throw blanket, she no doubt knew she would find in the walk-in closet where Rian chose to hide on some nights.
Even then she avoided making eye contact and he knew why – this was all nice of her, but her gestures were a clear sign she didn’t know how to help him. She was afraid of Harris as much as he was and most likely felt guilty, that she was in any way involved in this household dynamic to begin with.
Once Bran had become part of the family, the older Bulgarian woman had simply transformed. She fussed over the little one and even told Rian about her children and grandchildren.
She had been instrumental in helping Rian get his shit together and often prevented him from falling into the rabbit hole of reading parenting articles online when he was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do when Bran wouldn’t finish a whole bottle of formula. It took months for Rian to calm down and stop calling Margarita in the middle of the night if Bran’s cry was an octave higher, if he didn’t burp after his bottle, or if his nappy was dry or too wet.
“Am I doing this right?”Rian would ask her every time.
“As long as you’re trying your best, you most definitely are.”She would be quick to reassure him.
After a particularly bad night with Harris, when the evidence of his aggressive outbursts couldn’t be hidden, Margarita and Rian were often locked in a sad standoff – Margarita looking at Rian and Bran, her eyes filled with sadness, asking him…imploring him.
Tell me what to do.
Rian wouldn’t know how to respond to her silent plea. He’d shake his head, biting down on all those emotions that are threatening to drown him. He is not crazy enough, to believe anyone could help him escape this nightmare.
Nothing. You can’t help me. No one can.
* * *
Error,email not delivered. Incorrect email address.
Saved to drafts.
Dear Ty,
I have a son. His name is Bran. I don't think I've loved anyone as much as I love him, except for Cyril.
And you. As much as I loved you. Love you.
I know. Pathetic, right? Believe me, I am well aware.
And guess what? He was born on the same day as you and Cyril. November first.
Can you believe it?
I can’t get away from you Scorpions, no matter how much my delicate Aquarius spirit tries.
I think Cyril would have loved him so much! He would have been the most amazing uncle. I hope he meets you one day. I hope he gets to hear all the incredible stories you tell him about Cyril.
Bran is mine. His adoption was finalized last month. I adopted him on my own. It was hard. I don't...I want to tell you more, but what good is it?
Ty, I really miss you. I wish you would call me. I wish I knew where the hell you are.
I wish I had told you how I feel about you.
I miss you so much
Love, Rian
CHAPTERTWELVE
