Chapter Nineteen
Lorelie
“Milo!” I yell up the stairs. “Let’s go!”
“No!” comes the shout from upstairs.
I stare at the ceiling. “I swear to God.”
Genesis bursts out laughing from the sofa and springs to her feet. “I got it.”
“Thanks,” I start to say, except the gratitude turns into a glare the second she plucks Agnes out of my arms.
“What?” she says, bouncing my daughter shamelessly against her hip.
I shake my head and stomp toward the stairs. Behind me she yells, “You’re welcome!”
I make a face she can’t see and keep climbing.
Milo’s six now, but the way he’s acting, he may as well be sixteen. When I push open his door, my heart cracks a little at the sight of him, my once bubbly, bright boy, sitting sideways on his bunk with his bottom lip jutting out.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” I ask.
He folds his arms tighter. “I don’t wanna go.”
I try to run a hand through his hair, but he leans back, dodging me like I’m covered in cooties. “Why not?”
“I wanna stay home.”
“Honey,” I say softly, “it’s your dad’s week.”
He looks away, jaw tight the way Patrick’s used to get when he was pissed. “I don’t wanna leave.”
I take a slow breath, steadying myself. I still don’t know how to navigate moments like this.
When Patrick and I separated, we kept everything as calm and structured as we could.
One week with me, one with him. Every other day with Agnes, since I’m still breastfeeding.
And we don’t disappear from each other’s weeks either, the off-parent always does school drop-offs.
It’s not perfect, but we’ve made it work.
At least… I thought we did.
But Milo has been getting more and more unsettled these past few months. Some weeks he refuses to leave here. Other weeks he refuses to come back. He’s more emotional, more clingy, more anxious.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe through the beginnings of another meltdown, and it hits me.
It may be time to get him into therapy. Something is going on with my son, and he’s trying to tell me the only way he knows how.
My mind drifts to the papers I had drafted last week. Patrick and I haven’t lived together in a year. I thought it was finally time to make it official.
But looking at Milo now, small and tight-fisted on the edge of his mattress, I know this isn’t the moment. The last thing I want is to be in the middle of a divorce, splitting assets and negotiating custody, while our oldest is clearly in crisis.
Patrick still sees Dr. Brett. I know that much. Maybe the center has child psychologists too. It’s probably a conversation I need to have with his dad first.
Not right now though. Now, I just need Milo out the door.
I crouch next to him. “How about this,” I say gently. “If you get dressed, we can ask him to meet us at Grandma and Grandpa’s. They probably miss you.”
His eyes flick up at me, wary but interested.
“And,” I add, “I’ll go in with you. I won’t drop you outside like last time.”
He reminds me very seriously that he had to knock on the door himself as if he survived a natural disaster. I raise my hand and promise.
That does it. He hops off the bed and sprints to the bathroom to get dressed.
I stay where I am, hands in my lap, mind spinning.
Both Colter and Harvey understood why I ended the marriage. They never questioned it. They never made me feel guilty. But his mom and his sister… that’s been a different story entirely.
They acted like I was the unreasonable one. Like I just packed up and left because things got difficult. Chloe actually said, straight-faced, that a good wife would’ve stayed.
Stayed. As if I hadn’t tried. As if being cheated on and lied to was just a bump in the road I should’ve smiled through.
I didn’t abandon him.
Closing the door on a marriage isn’t the same thing as abandoning a person. If anything, I held him up longer than anyone else did.
Eight months ago, when he decided to celebrate being cleared by IA by getting drunk and wandering to my porch instead of going home, I didn’t turn on the sprinklers like Genesis wanted. I dragged him inside myself. I put him on the sofa and even covered him with a blanket.
The next morning, when he was sick and shaking and wouldn’t even look at me, I handed him an ultimatum.
Rehab or lose custody.
He chose rehab.
And I still stepped up. I drove him there myself. I didn’t abandon him in rehab either, I took Milo and Agnes every time they were allowed
His family doesn’t see any of that. They see the divorce papers I haven’t filed yet. They see a mother of two who said “enough” and actually meant it. To them, that’s the abandonment.
But I know better. I didn’t walk away from Patrick. I survived him. Barely.
By the time Milo’s done in the bathroom, I’ve already texted Patrick about the change of plans and packed Milo’s essentials, his school stuff, and the nightlight he refuses to sleep without. Everything he needs to travel with, the rest he has at his dad’s apartment.
Hand in hand, we make our way downstairs, then outside. Gen is bouncing Agnes on her hip while Milo chatters nonstop in her ear about the castle he has at his grandparents’. She listens like she hasn’t heard every word before.
Once the kids are buckled in the car, Gen closes the door and lowers her voice. “You want me to come?”
I shake my head and exhale. “I gotta do this sometime. Besides, go write.”
She groans like I’ve just assigned her chores.
Gen wrote this romance novel, fun, escapist, exactly her personality, except she added photos and illustrations from the actual places she traveled.
It was supposed to be a side project to kill time between flights, and somehow it blew up into something huge.
The sales were insane. Her inbox was filled with readers demanding a sequel.
Now she’s knee-deep in book two… if she could stop procrastinating long enough to actually finish it.
“I expect three chapters by the time I get back,” I tell her, slipping into the driver’s seat.
Genesis gives me the finger… then switches it to a cheerful wave the second Milo twists around to look.
I snort under my breath, start the car, and pull away from the curb, my stomach tightening with every street that brings me closer to the people I once considered myself lucky to have.
Patrick
I hear Lore’s car before I see it, and my whole chest pulls tight like it’s been cinched with a rope. I’m leaning against my car pretending I’m relaxed, like I haven’t been pacing holes into the driveway for the last ten minutes.
Milo spots me first.
“Daddy!” he yells, practically vibrating in his seat.
I help him unbuckle, and he’s off like a shot toward the side gate, yelling “Castle!” I can’t remember the last time I was this excited.
I reach in for Agnes next. She grabs my face with both hands. “You’re not gonna forget me for a castle, right?” I murmur, kissing her cheek.
Then Lore steps out of the car.
I freeze.
“You’re staying?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She closes her door and nods. “I promised him I would.”
Something warm flickers through me, I missed her. “I’m glad,” I say quietly.
We stand there, awkward as hell, like two strangers who used to know each other inside out. And then Agnes lets out a sound that can only be described as… a warning.
A second later: the smell hits.
I gag so hard my eyes water. “Oh God. What did you feed this kid?”
Lore grimaces. “Fish.”
“Of course,” I mutter, trying to breathe through my sleeve.
She hands me the diaper bag. “The doctor said she’s ready to try new foods.”
I shift Agnes on my hip. “I’m glad our daughter’s gonna have a big palate. I just wish she was potty trained.”
“She’s eleven months old.”
I shrug. “Early achiever.”
I lead the way into the house. My dad’s in the backyard, planted beside Milo’s precious castle because he knew exactly where the kid would run first.
I take Agnes to the downstairs guest room, really the kids’ room. This is where they sleep during sleepovers. Agnes hasn’t had one yet, but there’s a crib and a changing table waiting anyway. I lay her down and grab a diaper.
“How’s work?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Good,” Lore says quietly, slipping her hands into her pockets. “They hired Caroline back. Things feel normal again.”
“Yeah? No more schedule drama?”
“No. Thank God.”
“Good,” I say, meaning it.
“How about you? How’s work?”
“Oh.” I shrug. “It’s good. I mean, it sucked losing my sergeant post, but watching Barry grow a gut from all the desk work… I’m glad I took the demotion.”
She rests her hand on Agnes’s chest while I throw the dirty diaper away, clean her up and fasten a clean one on her squirmy body. For a second, our breaths mix, the memories of doing the same thing with Milo fresh on our minds.
I almost beg for forgiveness again, beg to come home, but she looks away, breaking the moment.
“I still think it was unfair they asked you to step down,” Lore says softly.
“I don’t,” I reply.
And God, it guts me, watching the surprise flicker across her face. Like she still expects the old defensive me.
But I meant it.
“I messed up,” I say. “More than once. I’m lucky they let me keep the badge.”
What I don’t say is the part that still chews at me:
I should’ve stepped down myself. Long before they asked. When I realized, I had a problem, but lets be honest, that didn’t happen till much later, even after Lore kicked me out, I still made excuses, still drank.
I see her throat work as she nods, smoothing her expression like she’s trying not to show me she’s surprised I can be honest now.
I wasn’t always like this, Lore.
I didn’t wake up one day and say, “Let me destroy everything I love.” It started small. A beer after a tough shift. Then two. Then four. Then it became what I looked forward to the most. What I planned around. What I became addicted to without even realizing.
In rehab, almost every story I heard sounded like mine, people who swore up and down they didn’t have a problem, even as they twitched through withdrawal or cried about the families they’d lost.
That was me.
I nearly missed the birth of my daughter. I barely remember her first months. All because one drink turned into finishing the whole bottle.
I learned responsibility the ugliest way possible, by realizing too late who I became.
Lore steps back then, creating distance, physical and otherwise. She moves across the room and sits on Milo’s bed, her fingers picking at the blanket’s edge like she’s trying to distract herself.
“So… uh.” She clears her throat, not meeting my eyes.
She’s working up to something. Something big.
Something I’m not sure I’m ready to hear, but I’ll take whatever she gives, even if it tears me apart.
“I’ve been thinking about what we should do with Milo.”
“What do you mean?” I shift Agnes on my shoulder, bouncing her gently.
She gives me a look like the answer should be obvious. “His behavior. The way he’s acting lately. I’m worried.”
“He’s a kid,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Isn’t it normal?”
“Not like this.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “He had a big change recently. Kids struggle with new babies, sure, but add a separation on top of that…” She trails off, swallowing. “It’s a lot for him.”
I sit down slowly, Agnes still perched on my shoulder, and wait for the part she’s working toward, because this isn’t just about tantrums or school reluctance.
It’s about everything I’ve put him through.
Lore keeps her eyes on Agnes. “I was… thinking about Orange Cove. It’s a family therapy center, right?”
I nod, “Ya.”
“Well, they must have child psychologists. And it’s already covered by our insurance.”
“You want to send him to therapy?” I ask, not against it, just making sure I heard her right.
She looks at me then. “Not permanently. But at least one session, so we can get some feedback and advice.”
I search her face. “You’re sure?”
“I am.”
“Alright.” I nod. “We’ll set it up.”
She starts to rise, but before she can stand, I ask, “My mom wants to know about Christmas.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “What about it?”
“The kids,” I say, lowering my voice when Agnes’s little body starts to sag against me, sleep taking her fast. “How do we do this?”
“What do you suggest?” she asks cautiously.
I shift Agnes to my other shoulder. Lore was working on Thanksgiving so we had the kids while they celebrated the next day. “I was thinking… you, Genesis, and the kids come here. We all celebrate together. Like we used to.”
Lore’s jaw tightens. “Patrick… it’s not the same. Your mother hates me. Your sister too. And honestly? Mine hates them. She’s forgiven you, but them… no.”
I bite my upper lip. “My mom apologized.”
Lore lifts her brows. “When? Because ‘I’m sorry you left my son’ is not an apology.”
“Look, she was hurt, okay? Can’t you just let it go?” I say it softer, mostly because Agnes is finally drifting off.
Lore’s teeth clench. “So, nothing’s changed. I’m supposed to compromise again.”
I blink, genuinely confused. “When has this happened before? You and my mom always got along.”
She lets out a humorless breath. “Because I always bent, Patrick. Your mother wanted Thanksgiving at our house, I took the day off and cooked. She wanted us to stay with them for Christmas, I agreed. Every holiday, every plan, I adjusted. But this…” She shakes her head.
“This is different. You and I aren’t together anymore.
And she made it very clear I’m no longer her family. ”
My brows shoot up. “When did she say that?”
“On Milo’s birthday,” Lore says, voice flat. “Your mom went out of her way to let me know I shouldn’t expect a present from her on mine, since I clearly didn’t wanna be a part of her family.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. “I had no idea.”
She gives a small shrug. Clearly me not knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
My mom had made those little comments back when I first brought Lore home, how she was glad there were no grandparents on Lore’s side, how at least we wouldn’t have to split holidays. I’d been horrified, but she never said any of it in front of Lore, and Dad shut her down fast.
After that, she never crossed that line again. And for a long time, things were good. Really good.
When Milo was born, they came around constantly.
Lore never complained, if anything, she was happier than I was to see them. She made space for them.
But she’s right. Things aren’t the same now.
And a lot is changing because of it.