Page 70 of When You Were Mine

I decide to stop trying to orchestrate the conversation, and just watch him instead.

The moments pass slowly, sweetly, like trickling syrup. Outside, the streetlamps come on and I can smell the lasagna bubbling away in the oven. Dylan slots another puzzle piece in and the picture begins to emerge—an antique car in a field.

I want to hold onto this moment, I want to take it in like a well-worn photograph, its edges smoothed away by time and love. I want it never to end.

But it does, of course. Dylan finishes the puzzle and I get out the lasagna, and we eat in the kitchen in a silence that feels fragile, the drip of the leaky faucet punctuating the clink of our cutlery. I wonder if Ally has come back, if she will be checking the clock for when Dylan returns. Maybe they’d rather he was out of the house for a little while, so they can deal with their own problems.

But as the minutes slip past, I can see that Dylan is getting anxious; he looks at me expectantly and I realize he wants to go back. I don’t want to keep him out longer, anyway; I can’t afford to break or even bend any rules.

And so, hand in hand, we head out into the frigid night, the breath-stealing cold freezing in our lungs.

Back at the Fieldings’ house, nothing has changed. Nick answers the door, unshaven, his hair rumpled, his expression blank, as if he didn’t expect me to return, and I suppress a stab of irritation.

“Ally isn’t home yet?”

“No…”

I shoulder past him towards the kitchen, which is just as messy, if not more so, as before.

Dylan tugs my hand and then nods towards the TV.

“I don’t think PBS Kids is on anymore, Dyl,” I say, glancing at Nick, who stares ar

ound blearily as if he doesn’t know where he is. And where’s Josh? I turn back to Dylan. “Why don’t you play with some Lego?”

Dylan nods and heads towards a big plastic bin full of Lego.

I look around the kitchen and then start loading the dishwasher, because I feel like I need to do something. I am not about to leave my son in this situation.

“You don’t have to…” Nick begins, and then trails off uselessly.

I don’t bother replying, instead focusing on putting cups with the muddy dregs of old coffee into the top of the dishwasher. I realize I am furious, so furious my fingers tremble as I load another mug.

Why is it, if Susan came into my home when it was like this, my child would be taken away, while if she came into the Fieldings’, she would give him to them? The injustice of it is so overwhelming, it chokes me.

“I’m sorry everything is like this,” Nick says after a few minutes. I’ve turned on the dishwasher and am now wiping down the counters.

“What’s going on?” I ask brusquely.

“Emma…” He trails off again, helpless, pitiable, and yet my heart is iron-hard as I stare at him.

“Emma?” I prompt coldly.

“She was in the hospital. Ally went to see her.”

“She’s hurt?”

“She tried to kill herself,” Nick says brokenly, and tears fill his eyes. I am still unmoved.

“You should have told Monica or Susan,” I say flatly. “If you have a situation that affects your ability to care for the child entrusted to you, they need to know. I need to know.”

“Ally’s coming back tonight. Soon, in fact—”

“And what about all weekend, while she was gone? Has Dylan been cared for? Has he had regular meals? Baths?”

“We’re doing the best we can—”

“So was I.” I thrust my chin out, glaring at him so hard, I feel as if I could burn up with it.

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