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“Yes. The only thing standing between her and my childhood is me.”
The words stung. “And you don’t trust yourself to give her a good childhood?”
He swallowed, his eyes searching for understanding. “I don’t trust myself to choose her over you.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
I threw my hands in the air. “You’re saying you can’t commit to both of us.”
“Something like that.”
“How, exactly, is that not breaking up?”
“It’s not permanent.”
My voice cracked with disbelief. “What’s not permanent? Her childhood?”
He growled in frustration, throwing himself back on the couch. “My brokenness.”
“Your brokenness.”
“Yes,” he hissed. “My brokenness. I’m half a man. Barely. I don’t know how to do this.” His finger circled between us. “Any of this. I don’t know how to boyfriend. I don’t know how to parent. I don’t know how to come to terms with what I thought I knew about my father. I need time!”
Just a few nights ago, I told him I loved him.
Held him while he cried.
Promised to take him however he was.
That did not include take him leaving.
My temper flared.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking Sia to Greece. To see my grandparents.”
I stared at him incredulously, waiting for his words to sink in and make sense.
“My grandfather is sick. Ninety-seven years old. I, uh, want to see him one last time. Want Sia to meet him.” He swallowed.
Roots. He was searching for his roots. Touching base with his mother through his grandparents. The only family he had.
Why didn’t he just say that?
“Of course,” I murmured. “When are you coming back?”
He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and looked down at the floor.
My heart pounded in my chest.
“I don’t know.”
Like a weaver sitting on the wrong side of the tapestry, all I saw were broken threads and ugly knots.
Broken.
