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“Mama.” A clammy hand creeps into mine. “I wanna go.”
A glance at the clock shows only ten minutes have passed since we sat down. I promised John sixty. But I also promised my son a long time ago that he never has to do anything he doesn’t wanna do, and I’ve already broken that by being the world’s worst mother and dragging him here to avoid the social media I’ve always dragged him into.
Fishing my keys out of my back pocket, I shove them at August. “Wait in the car, please.”
He hesitates, frowning.
“I’ll be right there.”
Reluctantly, he slides from the booth. Relief flutters in my chest but it sputters and dies when John grabs him, halting his escape. “Son—”
August rips his arm from his grasp. “I’m not your son,” he says, so calm compared to the words he spat at me earlier, so matter-of-fact. “I hate you.”
John surges to his feet, irate and spluttering. “You fucking—”
Before he can finish, I’m on my feet and shoving August a safe distance away before rounding on his sperm donor. “Don’t you ever yell at him again.”
Ignoring me, John stabs a finger in the direction August disappeared. “That’s your fault. He’s a rude little shit because ofyou.”
Pure rage mingles with astonished amusement. Of course, it’s my fault. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with years of neglect and verbal abuse and general assholery.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I gather up my stuff, giving my hands something to do other than throttle John. “I’m gonna take my rude little shit home.”
“To your sister’s apartment, you mean? Or are you free-loading off your boyfriend already?”
It’s like something clicks in my brain. I don’t know if it’s influenced by never wanting to be in agreement with John but suddenly, I hear how fuckingsillythat sounds. Accepting help isn’t free-loading—I’m not taking anything that isn’t being thrust upon me with little room for argument. Providing for your child, for your child’s family, isfucking normal.
“I mean it, Sunday!” John yells in my wake. “I’ll get a lawyer!”
One hand pushing the door open, I flip John off with the other. “From the bottom of my heart, fuck you.”
* * *
The door has barely slammed shut behind me before I’m bombarded.
August knocks the breath out of me, both literally and metaphorically as he tackles me with a hug. Arms banded tightly around my middle, he buries his head in my neck, soft curls tickling my chin and tears burning my collarbone. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”
I hug him back just as tightly, my own eyes wet in a millisecond. “I know.”
“I knew he was gonna be like that.”
Sighing, I rest my cheek against the top of his head. “Me too.”
“Then why did you make us go?”
“It’s complicated,” is the best answer I can give him. “Sometimes telling him no just makes things worse.”
He doesn’t get it but he tries, he tries so hard, agreeing and hugging and murmuring apologies I don’t need or want. Pulling back to peer up at me with glossy eyes, he asks, “Am I allowed go to the baby shower?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I wanna go. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“It’s okay if you did. I know all of this is hard for you.”
Unwavering, he insists, “I didn’t.”
“Okay.” I hug him to me again, tucking his head beneath my chin. “You still wanna hang out with Izzy tonight?”
