Three
Harper
Leo wakes up early, which means I wake up even earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed by the weight of his own indignation.
“You said I could have two pancakes on Wednesdays, not just one, and today is Wednesday,” and by the time I’ve navigated the minefield of his backpack, he’s already pulled every spoon out of the drawer and left them scattered in a bright, metallic trail from the kitchen to the living room.
His hair is sticking up like a science fair project, pyjamas still on, eyes already full of the caffeine that nature unfairly withholds from adults.
I could correct him, it’s actually Thursday, and the pancakes were never officially sanctioned for midweek consumption, but I don’t.
He deserves pancakes with everything else going on in this house, and besides, I kind of want pancakes too.
There is comfort in it. In the mixing of batter and the smell of the pancakes cooking.
I crack eggs, pour batter, do the little wrist flick that Leo likes to call “Mom’s trick” even though it’s nothing more than knowing when to taper the pour to manage the drips.
The pan sizzles, the house fills with the smell of something other than detergent and stress, and for two minutes everything is ordinary.
Leo sits at the counter, alternating between chewing and producing a running commentary on dinosaur migration, which apparently is the subject of a new documentary he’s watched at least twice this week.
He pivots topics with zero transition: “Did you know T-Rexes had feathers sometimes?” (He doesn’t wait for an answer.) “Did Dad sleep at work? Is he coming to my soccer thing?”
I could tell the truth or I could make up an elaborate story.
I choose instead to tell, what I hope, is a white lie.
“Dad’s just really busy with work stuff right now,” I say, voice as close to neutral as I can manage.
Wondering myself why his ‘space’ from me has extended to our son without so much as a text.
He pokes at a pancake, clearly weighing whether this explanation is enough. He decides it is, but I know that it won’t last for long. “Can we get a Spinosaurus cake for my birthday?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say, because it is an answer I can give him when the thousand others that I am sure he has are just out of reach right now.
The morning routine is built for efficiency.
Teeth, shoes, the three-point inspection of “do you have everything” that always results in us turning back for the folder or the water bottle or the random piece of homework that’s due that day.
Leo’s energy turns the walk to school into an obstacle course, but today he’s quieter, less likely to run ahead, more likely to grab my hand and squeeze it for no reason at all.
We reach the school gate. He looks up at me, eyes suddenly serious. “Do you think Dad will come for the soccer thing?”
“I think he’ll try,” I say, and hope that I sound like I believe it.
Leo nods. His face is unusually serious, then he lets go of my hand and sprints toward the double doors with a wave, his backpack bouncing with each step. I watch him until he’s inside, then wait until the crowd thins and the door closes. I walk back to the house, counting my steps the whole way.
Inside, the house is just as we left it. I stand in the entryway for a second, listening to the hush that follows a child’s exit. There’s a layer of quiet here that feels too thick and uncomfortable. I go straight to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and start the morning ritual.
Coffee beans, grinder, the tamp of the portafilter.
I do it all without thinking, like muscle memory is the only thing left between me and insanity.
I set my phone face-up on the counter. The screen is blank, but I stare at it anyway, waiting for something.
For Ethan to finally pull his head out of his ass, for Leo’s sake, if nothing else.
When the coffee is ready, I pour it into the mug with the blue rings, the good ceramic, the one from the wedding registry that survived ten years of marriage and at least one kitchen renovation.
I set the mug on the counter, lean against the sink, and dial Ethan, deciding that if he won’t take the first step, then I have to.
It rings twice, then his voicemail picks up. The recording is the same as always: warm and polite, the voice of a man who could sell you a used car and make you thank him for it. “Hey, you’ve reached Ethan Bennett. Leave a message or text me if it’s urgent.”
I hang up without speaking.
I set the phone down. Then I pick it up again, thumb hovering over the keyboard before I type:
Leo was asking for you this morning. When do you want to see him?
I hit send. For a moment, nothing. Then, the three dots, the world’s most advanced anxiety generator, flicker in the message bar. They disappear. Reappear. Then a text arrives:
I think it’s best that all further communication goes through our lawyers.
The words don’t register right away. I read them once, then again, letting the words sink in fully. I text back.
What about Leo. When do you want to see him? He was asking for you.
The reply comes faster this time.
I just need space right now. We can talk when you get a lawyer.
I don’t remember picking up the mug. I just know that, suddenly, it’s in my hand, the weight of it more real than anything else, and then it’s flying across the kitchen, arcing through the air and shattering against the tile in four perfect pieces.
The sound is huge, like a warning shot fired into the world.
The silence that follows is even bigger.
I stand over the broken mug, and something in my body gives out. My stomach lurches, bile rising, and I make it to the sink in time to retch, one hand braced against the cold steel, the other gripping the edge like I might actually fall.
When it’s over, I slump to the floor, my back sliding down the dishwasher, knees pulled up to my chest. The tile is freezing under my legs. I can’t get enough air; each breath catches halfway, like there’s something stuck between my ribs.
The kitchen is silent except for the low hum of the fridge and my own too-fast breathing. I stare at the mess in front of me. The coffee splatter on the cabinets, shards of blue-and-white ceramic scattered across the grout.
My phone is still on the counter, screen now gone black. I watch it for a long time, hoping, or maybe just wishing it would light up again. That he would apologise. That he would realise that Leo is the innocent one in this whole situation. It doesn’t though.
Ethan had never been the sort of father who built blanket forts or spent entire afternoons kicking a football around the backyard.
He wasn't going to win Father of the Year.
But he'd ask Leo about school. He'd ruffle his hair as he walked past. He'd sit through soccer games with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
On the occasional Saturday, he'd even get down on the floor and build Lego castles until Leo declared them "good enough. "
Which was why this made no sense.
I could understand him needing space from me. I just couldn't understand needing space from his own son. I had expected awkward conversations, shared custody, uncomfortable handovers... not for Ethan to simply disappear and leave me to explain to a little boy why his dad had stopped calling.
The only thing in my head is the echo of Ethan’s voice from the voicemail.
His voice was warm, reliable, the sound of someone who could convince you nothing bad is ever going to happen.
I try to picture his face, the way he looked the day we got the mugs, the way he laughed when I broke the first one three years later and glued it back together with a pride that bordered on delusion, only for it to leak when I poured coffee into it again.
I wonder if he remembers any of that. I wonder if he’s reading the texts from somewhere comfortable, somewhere silent, somewhere that doesn’t include the ghost of me or the sound of our son’s voice.
Leo’s jacket is still on the hook by the door, the one he didn’t take because he insisted he wasn’t cold, and I didn’t push it.
I stare at it, then at the sink, where Ethan’s mug, his, the tall one with the chipped handle he always refused to throw out, is sitting on the drying rack, right where I washed it the other morning, like a person who had no idea what was coming.
I wrap my arms around my knees, press my forehead down, and try to remember the last time I let myself fall apart. I can’t. There isn’t one.
The world doesn’t end. I just sit there, surrounded by broken things, waiting for the next thing I have to do. And wondering how a man can ask for space from his own child and still sleep at night.
I don’t know how long I sit there. The chill from the tile seeps upward, creeping past my jeans, until my legs start to go numb.
Eventually, the discomfort becomes enough to override my breakdown.
I push myself up, knees stiff. Sitting on the floor is not a thing I do.
At least, not for more than a minute at a time.
I make a noise in my throat, something halfway between a laugh and a groan, then step around the coffee puddle and start the cleanup.
The mug is in four pieces, a couple of splinters small enough that I have to crouch to pick them up.
I toss them in the bin, rinse the sink, wipe the worst of the coffee off the tile with a dish towel that once belonged to my grandmother and now belongs to the garbage.
The kitchen looks almost normal again, except for the faint brown outline on the grout, which I decide can be a problem for Future Me.
My phone is still on the counter, screen dark. I check for new messages. Nothing from Ethan. Nothing from anyone. I close my eyes, count to five, and then dial Elsie.