Chapter 44 Jess
Jess
Two weeks have passed since Marco returned home and I’m standing in the kitchen stress-eating apple slices like they’re going to solve all my problems.
Those are supposed to be Ben’s after school snack, I remind myself, and force myself to stop.
It was Ben’s first day back to school this morning. As in, actual school, not homeschooling by yours truly.
I’d prepped like I was launching a product campaign. Brave rules laminated and tucked in her backpack. Frederick wearing a tiny courage cape I sewed from scrap fabric at two in the morning because apparently insomnia is my new best friend. Stickers in case of emergency emotional regulation needs.
When your contingency planning rivals a military operation but you’re really just trying to keep a traumatized kindergartener from having a meltdown in front of her classmates.
The morning drop-off went smoothly. Too smoothly.
My phone has been surgically attached to my hand all day.
Zero calls.
Which should feel like a win except my anxiety brain has decided that silence equals impending disaster. Classic algorithm thinking. If engagement drops, something must be catastrophically wrong.
I check the time.
Two forty-five.
Pickup in fifteen minutes.
Rosa appears beside me with a container of freshly cooked pasta.
“For you,” she says in that matter-of-fact way that somehow makes everything feel slightly less terrible.
“Thanks.” I take the container. The smell of butter and parmesan hits me and my stomach reminds me I forgot lunch again.
When you’re so busy keeping everyone else fed and functional that you forget your own basic human needs.
I devour the dish.
Jag drives me to pickup. The school looks exactly the same as it did this morning except now I’m about to find out if Ben survived or if I’m about to deal with a call from the school counselor.
I spot her in class as the other students are exiting. Navy jumper, white shirt, those ridiculous knee socks that never stay up. She’s holding Frederick against her chest. Her face is blank.
Not crying though. That’s something.
“How was she?” I ask Mrs. Chen, expecting the worst.
Mrs. Chen actually smiles. “She was wonderful. Very calm. Participated in circle time. Shared her crayons with Emma.”
“Oh.”
When you’ve built up this whole catastrophe narrative in your head and reality decides to go off-script in the best possible way.
I glance back at Ben, who’s still staring straight ahead like she didn’t just casually nail her first day back at school post-bear-attack-trauma. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“Of course. See you tomorrow, Benedetta!”
Ben merely nods blankly.
I lead her to the coat room, grab her jacket, then we leave.
She climbs into the SUV without a word. Buckles herself in with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
I wait until we’re moving before I try. “Hey piccola. I heard you had a good day?”
“Yeah.”
That’s it.
Just “yeah.”
She keeps Frederick pressed against her chest and stares out the window like the Manhattan traffic is suddenly fascinating.
When your emotional intelligence tells you something’s off but you can’t quite pinpoint what.
I study her.
She’s not crying.
Not fidgeting.
Just... quiet.
Which honestly might be worse than a meltdown because at least meltdowns I know how to handle.
Then it clicks.
School was a distraction.
From the thing waiting at home.
Marco.
The father who used to fill her life with bedtime stories and laughter and actual human presence.
Going back to school wasn’t about learning. It was about escaping.
And suddenly I’m wondering if I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe getting her out of the house isn’t just good for her anxiety. Maybe it’s the only thing that will keep her sane.
We get home.
Marco is nowhere to be found, as usual.
Ben doesn’t eat any apple slices.
She goes straight to her room.
I give her a few minutes and then follow. Knock softly. “Can I come in?”
“Okay.”
She’s sitting on her bed. Frederick is propped beside her. She’s staring at her hands.
I sit down next to her. Close enough to be present but not so close I’m crowding. “You want to talk about it?”
Her bottom lip trembles.
Here it comes...
“The other kids asked where I was,” she whispers. “I said my daddy got hurt. They asked if he was okay. I said yes. But...”
“But?” I keep my voice gentle.
“I wish the old Daddy would come back.” The tears start. Silent at first, then harder. “It’s like he’s dead now, too. Like Mommy.”
Oh God.
Oh no.
My throat goes tight. I pull her into a hug and she clings to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting under her feet.
“Your daddy isn’t dead, sweetheart,” I tell her. Which is technically true. Physically he’s very much alive.
Emotionally?
Jury’s still out.
“Then why won’t he come out?” Her voice cracks. “Why won’t he look at me like before?”
Because he’s convinced his scars make him unlovable. Because he’s drowning in guilt. Because controlling everything from inside a dark room feels safer than facing what he’s become.
I can’t say any of that.
“He’s healing,” I tell her instead. “Remember what Dr. Hale said? He’s healing on the outside and the inside. And sometimes the inside takes longer.”
She nods against my shoulder. Doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame her.
When I leave, I don’t bother to tell Marco about the conversation. We don’t do the nightly debriefs anymore, and anyway I’m sick of talking through a door to him.
Besides, he’s probably got enough to deal with. His own trauma. His own scars. The last thing he needs is me adding to the guilt pile.
The days blur.
Ben goes to school. Comes home. Does homework at the kitchen island while I make encouraging noises about her letter formation.
Marco stays in his room running his empire from the shadows via laptop and phone calls.
I catch glimpses of Neli coming and going with supplies. Jag stands guard.
The house functions like a machine where all the parts move independently and never quite connect.
I’m still sleeping in the glorified closet on Ben’s floor. The temporary live-in arrangement that was supposed to end keeps getting extended because apparently this is my life now.
Thursday night is the school forum.
I don’t want to go. The thought of facing other parents, of fielding questions about Marco, of pretending everything’s fine when it’s very much not makes my skin crawl.
But Elena specifically asked me to attend. Said it was important. Said Marco was supposed to come but he’s “unavailable.”
Unavailable. What a polite way to say hiding away in his room as usual.
I text Ethan and ask if he can come along for emotional support. His response is noncommittal.
I show up in jeans and a sweater that’s probably too casual but I’ve lost the ability to care about looking put together. My hair is in a bun. I’m wearing the bare minimum of makeup.
This is as good as it gets.
The forum is in the school library. Parents are scattered around on those tiny chairs that make everyone look like giants. I spot Ethan near the front and nearly cry with relief.
He waves me over. “Hey. Saved you a seat.”
“You’re my favorite person right now,” I tell him.
“Just right now?” He grins but there’s concern in his eyes. “How you holding up?”
“Define holding up.”
My brother doesn’t push. Just squeezes my shoulder once.
After a moment he leans in close so others can’t hear. “Our mutual friend doesn’t want to see me, either... we might have to stage an intervention at some point.”
I purse my lips, then answer softly. “We’d need Jag on board.”
“I can get him on board,” he assures me.
I consider his proposal for a moment. “I don’t know... Marco just needs... time.”
Ethan sits back, seeming unconvinced. Then he sighs. “All right. We’ll give him a while longer.”
We turn our attention to the front where the principal is starting her welcome speech.
Then she introduces Elena, who stands up. She walks to the podium wearing a tailored suit.
“Parent Bill of Care,” she announces. Behind her, the screen fills with her presentation.
So she finally finished it, I think.
“Simple rules,” she continues. “No posting kids’ faces without explicit written permission. No meltdown videos. Ever. Fast takedown protocol if something slips through. We’ve set up a QR code system that routes directly to our response team.”
It’s very similar to our Family Meal Mondays rules. I expected the parents to be excited about something like this, but instead the room goes very quiet.
“This is about privacy,” Elena continues. “And safety. And respecting that these are children, not content machines.”
A mom in the back raises her hand. “What about birthday party photos?”
“If your child is in the photo, you control that. If other children are in the photo, you need permission from every parent.”
“That seems excessive,” another parent says.
Elena’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is it? Or is it basic human decency in an age where a photo can be screenshot, edited, and weaponized in under sixty seconds?”
The Q&A gets tense. Some parents push back. Others nod along. Eventually it comes to a vote.
The Bill passes.
Not unanimously but enough that it’s official.
After the meeting, a woman approaches me. I recognize her from pickup. She’s the one who posted the hallway clip of Ben having a meltdown. The clip Sabrina and Amara helped take down.
“Jessica?” Her voice is small. “Can we talk?”
I want to say no. Want to walk away. But curiosity wins.
“Sure.”
We step into the hallway. She wraps her arms around herself.
“I wanted to apologize. For the video. I wasn’t thinking.
I just saw Benedetta struggling and thought maybe other parents would relate but I didn’t consider how it might affect her.
Or you. Or your family. I’m sorry. Especially for how I captioned the video. That wasn’t... wasn’t right.”
The apology hangs there.
I’m still kind of angry at her, especially regarding the aforementioned caption, but instead I take the high ground.
“Thank you for saying that,” I tell her.
She nods. Leaves.
Ethan joins me. “I saw that. You okay?”
“Getting there.”
“Proud of you,” he says. “For showing up. For handling that.”
I don’t feel like I handled anything. Just survived it.
“Think about what I said,” he tells me. “An intervention.”
“I will.” I give him a hug and we go our separate ways
The ride home is quiet.
The townhouse is dark when we pull up. Lights off except for the ones on timers. Marco’s window is black.
Still hiding.
Still gone.
I wish he’d come tonight. Wish he’d seen Elena present the Bill. Wish he’d watched parents actually give a damn about protecting kids instead of farming them for clicks.
But wishing doesn’t change anything.
I head inside. Check on Ben. She’s asleep. Frederick is tucked in beside her.
Then I go to my glorified closet and sit on the bed.
My phone buzzes. Text from Amara: How’d the forum go?
I type back: Survived. Bill passed.
Then: Great news. And how are YOU?
I stare at the question. Delete three different answers before settling on: Still figuring that out.
I put my phone away. Lie down. Stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’ll get up. Make breakfast. Get Ben ready for school. Continue this bizarre half-life where I’m neither employee nor girlfriend nor family member but some strange combination of the three.
And Marco will stay in his room. And I’ll stay in mine. And we’ll keep orbiting each other without ever actually connecting.
Just like the algorithm wanted all along.
Unless.
An intervention.
I think of Neli.
She’s the only one who sees him anymore. The only one he lets past the door.
Which means she’s the only one we need.
Not Jag.
Yes.
Neli is the key.
Tomorrow morning, she and I are going to have a little chat.