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And Sal… He had to know too.
The realization that everyone around me was aware of my heritage and kept me in the dark cuts deep, but Sal’s silence stings the most. He was my dad’s cousin, a constant presence in my life from the moment I arrived. I always believed he was a good man, someone looking out for a woman passing through Lenora on her way to Canada with a child, but his silence speaks of a deeper connection, a bond forged in shared memories and love for a man who shaped us both.
I should have kept driving.
Regret gnaws at me. The past seems riddled with choices that led me to this moment, choices that now weigh heavily on my heart. If only I had driven away and stayed ignorant of the secrets that bind me to this town.
It’s no wonder Harlow orchestrated the unfolding of these revelations as she did. I owe her more than words could ever express, but now I’m lost in the whirlwind of emotions, unsure what steps to take aside from sitting here, frozen in this maelstrom of my past.
“Lottie?” Milo’s sweet voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, yanking me from the edge of a panic attack. His presence grounds me in the present, a moment I can’t possibly deal with, and yet, I have to.
“Hey, tater tot,” I murmur, trying to put on a brave face, despite my turmoil. I blow out a breath that smells awful, the scent of my own distress heavy in the air. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay.” He yawns and stretches, a little echo of his baby self when he would prop his tiny fists under his chin, preparing to drift back to sleep, but that was before he decided he was going to be a morning person and get up at the crack of dawn every day.
“I don’t like this room,” he whispers.
Feeling awful, I get up and lie beside him, our heads a pillow apart. “Neither do I,” I admit softly, although my reasons are entirely different than his.
“You’re sad,” he observes, his little face contorting into a frown.
“A little,” I say, reaching out to trace a new freckle on his cheek. “You have a new sprinkle.”
“They keep popping up.”
I see innocence in his young eyes, a reminder of the beauty that still exists in this complex world of shadows and secrets.
“They remind me of Dad,” I tell him, knowing how much he loves it when I talk about our father. He’s the spitting image of him.
“Tell me about him,” he says, turning to face me, propping himself up on his palms. “Tell me a story, Lottie.”
I lick my lips, trying to keep myself under control for Milo. My entire world is crashing down around me, yet through it all, I know I will stand tall amongst the storm to protect him.
What are you willing to do to protect him?Desmond’s words haunt me. I would raze the world to keep him safe. I’d destroy every obstacle in my way to assure he thrives, even if I can’t. I’m not the same person I was when he first asked me that question.
Boxing up all of my emotions, I manage a smile as the first memory that comes to mind blossoms within me. “I remember when Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital,” I murmur, my voice carrying a tender warmth. “You were such a wrinkly little thing.”
Milo playfully rolls his eyes, a hint of innocence coloring his expression. “All babies are wrinkly. Winston told me that. He has a baby sister.”
“He’s absolutely right,” I say, gently booping his nose. “Dad took time off work to be home with Mom for a couple of months.” I omit the problematic parts, like the struggles my mom faced during her recovery from a significant hemorrhage during childbirth, but through it all, she wore a smile for us. “Dad developed a newfound love for cooking.”
A faint smile graces Milo’s lips. “You hate cooking. You definitely didn’t inherit that from Dad.”
I chuckle softly, partly because he’s spot on and partly because he still believes that Dad was my biological father. He can never know the truth. “No, I didn’t,” I concede. “But during those two months, Dad became so skilled at it.” Nostalgia tugs at my heart, painting my thoughts with memories of a time when our family was untouched by tragedy.
Oh, how I miss them.
“What was Mom’s favorite meal?” Milo asks, his voice gentle and tinged with longing, reflecting the unending ache that resides within me. Just when I believe I’ve overcome the waves of grief, they crash over me once again.
“Bread,” I whisper, my voice trembling with the weight of memories as I sink deeper into the recesses of nostalgia. “All kinds of bread. Dad had this knack for baking baguettes that turned golden in the oven, the crust just the right balance of crispy and chewy. He’d slice them, then make bruschetta, the diced tomatoes and onions marinating in a medley of herbs and balsamic. Mom would savor it, relishing each bite with a kind of pleasure only she could convey.”
Each memory, each fragment of a happier past, feels like a fragile thread holding onto the fabric of my existence. I cherish them, fearing they might unravel and disappear forever, leaving me adrift in a colorless world.
“What’s that?” Milo ponders, breaking through my reverie.
“It’s a mix of tomatoes and onions on toasted bread,” I explain, my mind still wrapped in the recollection. “Mom didn’t like cheese much, so Dad left that out.” I can’t recall every ingredient of bruschetta, but those two remain etched in my memory. The simplicity of the dish, the blend of flavors, is a metaphor for the uncomplicated joy of those times.
“Would I like it?” Milo’s eyes widen with curiosity, a glint of our mother’s spirit dancing within them.
