AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I don’t.” Meg shakes her head vehemently. But there’s a part of her that does. She wouldn’t be so mad if she wasn’t hurt and betrayed right now. I don’t call her out on the lie. She probably doesn’t fully realize it is one.
“Owen does,” I counter instead, desperately clinging to my calm.
The fight goes out of Meg. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t deserve Owen.” She stoops to pick up her bag. “I’ll be in the truck. Owen’s almost ready.”
I watch Meg stomp down the slushy path and heft her bag into the back of my vehicle. Once she’s buckled into the passenger seat, I go to knock on Trevor’s door. With any luck, this is the last time I’ll have to stand in front of him, like a supplicant at his mercy.
“Just a sec!” Owen calls, his voice muffled through the door.
A moment later, the door flies open and I can see that my son has been crying. He dashes at his red-rimmed eyes. My heart aches for him, I wish all over again that I could take away his pain, do something to make this all better the way I used to be able to kiss away his boo-boos. I reach for him, patting his shoulder, to reassure us both that I’m here for him.
Owen sniffles. “Hey, Pop. I just need to grab some stuff from my room.”
“Sure. Is your dad here?” Not that I want to see Trevor, but Owen’s comment reminds me I probably need to make arrangements for any stuff they’ve left here.
“I’m right here,” Trevor barks as he stomps toward me. Owen scurries down the hallway to his room. Trevor has the decency to wait until our son’s door closes to tear into me. “I don’t appreciate you being fuck knows where when you’re supposed to be picking up the kids.”
“Where I spend my time is none of your business, Trevor.” I try to keep my cool. “Do the kids have anything here that I need to pick up before you move? Or did you want to leave their stuff with your mom?”
“I’ll give it to Mom for when they visit her.”
“Sure. Did you still want to take them one night this week since you already told them about the move?”
“I’m a little busy getting everything packed, Angie,” he drawls his stupid nickname for me like he’s doing me a favor. “You can figure out your own childcare for the school break.”
“Right. I’ll do that.” I have to bite my cheek to keep my cool with him. My fists clench so tight my nails dig painfully into my palms. I count down from ten twice. “Well, I’ll just take Owen’s bag and let you say your goodbyes. When he’s ready, I’ll be out front waiting.”
I don’t wait for a reply, just bend to snag the strap of Owen’s duffel bag, and haul it up to my shoulder. I can credit T with making the lift easier than it was even a few years ago. Now I can heft the kids’ heaviest gear with impunity. Although Owen is still approaching the limits of my ability to carry him these days.
I shut the door, but I linger on Trevor’s front steps, waiting for Owen. I’m not trying to eavesdrop or anything, but I have an ear out for any sign my son might need me to intervene—raised voices or anything. Whatever I’m expecting doesn’t happen. Meg texts to ask what the holdup is. I tell her to be patient and watch through the window as she slumps dramatically in the passenger seat, curled over her phone.
A few long moments later, Owen slips out through the front door. He’s clutching his ratty old baby blanket to his chest. It was a lumpy and misshapen thing when his grandmother and I first knit and pieced together the granny squares in every shade of blue we could find. That blanket and the even messier pink one we made for Meg are my only attempts at knitting.
In my defense, I was not at my best, hormonal and pregnant and miserable from living in Trevor’s mom’s basement. I missed my gran. When I told my ex-mother-in-law about how Gran made similar blankets for me and my brother when we were born, she offered to help me carry on the tradition for my kids.
My own mother wouldn’t even talk to me, and here was Trevor’s mom, keeping my family traditions alive. Despite having as little crafting experience as I did, she helped me. I don’t know how her son ended up so callous, but I will always make sure the kids have a relationship with his mother. No matter how Trevor behaves or how many tantrums he’s thrown over the years about me still spending time with his mom.
Owen brought the blanket over here ages ago, when he said he couldn’t sleep at Trevor’s. I told him since Grandma helped me make it, that it’s like he’s wrapping our love around himself when he snuggles under it.
My heart squeezes uncomfortably tight against my ribs at that visceral reminder that Owen is losing something important tonight. This isn’t his home anymore. And somehow the man inside can let our son—both of our children—walk away without a fight. That crushes me, too close to my own deeply buried wounds.
It’s not the same thing, not quite, but it still guts me. I wish I could wrap both of my children up in my love and shield them from this pain. Since I can’t, I do the next best thing. I drape my arm around Owen’s narrow shoulders to guide him to the truck. I help him stow his things in the bed and make sure he buckles into the back bench seat.
Then I pull back onto the icy road, away from Trevor’s place. The kids are subdued as we drive, but I can’t put off telling them where we’re going for long. Even if it might open a can of worms that I’m not ready to handle. I don’t expect them to bounce right back from Trevor’s news—I should have expected him to wield it like a weapon, but the timing hurts.
I ask about their holiday so far and get noncommittal one-word replies. The food was good. Their cousins are fine. Grandma sayshito me. They’re a bit more animated when they tell me about their gifts. Owen got a cool custom display rack for his old tae kwon do belts. His uncle promised to drop it off next week, since Trevor didn’t have room for it in the car. Meg got a makeup kit that she’s been eyeing for her dance shows, and then they lapse back into silence.
Their quiet brooding makes me question whether it’s the right time to share what Saint and I discussed about our relationship. I don’t know if now is the right time to spring a new partner on them, even if they sort of already know. But I can’t exactly hide the fact our cozy family Christmas is waiting for us at his place.
“We lost power last night, so Saint invited us to have our Christmas at his house,” I explain as I turn toward his place instead of home. “Is that alright?”
“Yeah, Saint is pretty cool,” Owen says. “He got my class brownies and grapes.”
“Did he? When was that?”
“Friday, on the way to school. I, uh, forgot to give you the sign-up sheet for our class party.”
He didn’t forget, he just knew it would be a strain on our budget. I quash my immediate reaction of wanting to pay Saint back for the snacks. I bite back an apology for the inconvenience and for not being able to give my kid the entire world on my own.
