Chapter Twenty-Three
Brooke
My key sticks as I wiggle it in the lock. I try to open it quietly, but obviously not quite enough, Penny wakes up from her blissful after-lunch nap and immediately starts wailing.
“Shhh,” I whisper, trying to soothe her while fumbling with the damn key.
It finally aligns, and I push the door open, rolling the stroller inside.
The door clicks shut behind me as I shrug off my jacket, scoop Penny into my arms, and wrap her in her blanket.
I bounce her gently, rubbing slow circles on her back.
I startle when I finally glance up at the living room.
Matthew’s sitting there. Just… sitting. Staring at me.
“You could’ve helped,” I snap, my nerves already frayed.
“It’s not like you care about my input,” he says flatly.
I take a steadying breath. “I don’t have the energy for this,” I mutter, moving toward the nursery.
But he steps into my path. “Where were you?”
“Meeting the nanny,” I say, bouncing Penny, who’s still wailing.
“I asked you not to.”
“No, you didn’t,” I shoot back. “And besides, you can’t-”
“I can’t?” he cuts me off sharply. “Can’t have an input on who’s raising my daughter?”
“She won’t be raising her,” I say, my voice trembling with frustration. “She’ll just help us. Look after-”
“That’s your job,” he snaps, voice rising. “But no, you wanna leave. Go out. Work.”
My arms tighten around Penny. “I’m going to put her down,” I say, keeping my tone low. I’m not having this argument while she’s in my arms.
But Matthew blocks me again, eyes dark and wild. “No.”
“Excuse me?” My voice sharpens.
Penny’s cries stutter and quiet, that fragile moment between sobs.
“No,” he repeats, voice low. “You’re not walking away. Not this time.”
“I do not want to fight in front of her,” I hiss.
“It’s about her,” he throws back. “About how her mom doesn’t wanna be with her.”
My mouth falls open. I whisper-yell, “What’s wrong with you? Seriously, what the hell is the matter with you?”
“I’M FUCKING FINE!” he roars.
The sound hits like a slap. Penny jerks in my arms and starts sobbing again, loud hiccupy cries that cut right through me.
Matthew’s face twists as he looks at her, at the way I’m holding her protectively. His anger cracks, just slightly. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t…” His voice falters, breaking apart at the edges.
He trails off.
Then he turns and walks away.
I stand frozen, watching him grab nothing, his phone’s still on the coffee table, his jacket still on the hook. He just walks out.
I don’t call after him.
I just stand there, holding Penny, listening to the door click shut behind him.
Matthew
What did I just do?
God. The image of Brooke holding Penny like she needed to protect her from me, that’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Me. I’m her dad. I’m supposed to be the safe one.
I keep walking. I don’t know how long or where. Just streets. Crowds. Noise. Brooklyn moves around me like it always does, loud and messy and filled with so many fucking people.
I end up at a crosswalk, staring blankly at the light, when I see him.
A man across the street, bumping into a woman. Once, twice. At first it looks like nothing, just crowded sidewalk traffic, but then I see his wrist move. Not accidental.
Something inside me snaps.
One second, I’m watching him. The next, I’m across the street, slamming into him, knocking him backward. The sound of knuckles meeting bone is sharp and ugly. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I pummel him.
I get a couple of good shots in before two cops finally appear out of nowhere, yanking me off him. Funny, he was harassing a woman for God knows how long and nobody showed up. But the second he gets a taste of what he deserves, the cavalry arrives.
They don’t ask me a single question before slapping cuffs on me and shoving me into the back of a squad car. The adrenaline’s wearing off fast, replaced by a cold, sinking weight.
At the precinct, the booking is fast. Fingerprints. Mug shot. Emptying my pockets. A bland room with buzzing lights.
I stand in the cell wondering if I should just sit next to the passed-out guy or risk it on the floor with someone that looks and smells like death.
I don’t get to decide before an officer calls my name.
Wonder who I should call, the wife who’s scared of me or the mother I kicked out of my life.
Maybe Lenny who has been MIA ever since Penny was born.
“It’s your lucky day,” the cop says. “The guy you clocked refused to file charges at the hospital. No victim, no case. You’re free to go.”
He mutters something about a possible citation, but it barely registers. I just nod, sign something, and walk out into the night air.
“Mr.!”
I turn at the sound of the voice.
It’s her. The woman. Up close, she looks younger than me, a little shaken but standing tall. Her hands are wrapped around the strap of her bag, knuckles white.
“I-uh,” she starts, her voice trembling but determined. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
I nod. “Don’t mention it.”
I turn to leave, dreading going home, but her voice stops me.
“Why?” she asks, a little breathless. “Why’d you intervene? Not that I’m not grateful.”
I stand there, hands shoved into my pants pockets, staring at the pavement for a second. “I have a daughter,” I say finally. “And I guess I… reacted.”
Something softens in her face. “Your daughter’s a lucky girl.”
I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. She starts to turn away, but I call after her.
“Hey.”
She looks back.
“Next time,” I say quietly, “don’t be quiet.”
Her eyes shine, a mix of exhaustion and something sad underneath. She nods once, a silent promise, and then she’s gone, melting into the city.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the streetlights flicker against the pavement, wishing we lived in a world where this would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
But we all know that’s not true.
This is the world my daughter will grow up in.
That’s why I want Brooke home. So, she can teach our daughter how to stand up for herself instead of some stranger doing it.
I start walking home. I don’t even have my phone or cash for a cab. My feet already ache, my shirt isn’t nearly warm enough for the night chill, and I haven't eaten anything since breakfast.
I think about the long walk home. There is someone who lives closer.
I haven’t spoken to her in a long time, but I’m not ready to face Brooke, not yet.
I decide to go.
The path to her building comes back to me like muscle memory. I walk up the familiar steps, my hand trailing the railing, it’s new. The rest of the place, though, looks the same. Like a piece of my childhood frozen in time.
I knock, then wait.
I’m just about to turn around when the door swings open.
She stands there, framed in warm yellow light, her face first startled, then soft.
“Mat?” she breathes.
“Hi, Aunt Mia,” I say with a small smile.
Her eyes widen, and then she’s pulling me into her arms with a laugh that sounds exactly like it used to.
“Oh, you’ve grown up,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
When she pulls back, she cups my arms, giving me a once-over like she’s trying to reconcile the kid she knew with the man standing in front of her. “So tall. And handsome.”
I duck my head, feeling something warm and stupidly comforting settle in my chest. “And you look just the same.”
She lets out a sharp laugh and lightly slaps my arm. “It’s been ten years, I doubt that.”
Then she steps aside and gestures me in, closing the door softly behind us.
“So,” she says, cocking an eyebrow as we walk toward the kitchen, “what brings you here? I’m guessing it’s not because you missed me.”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling about twelve years old again. “I did miss you, Aunt Mia. It’s just… Ma…”
She lets out a soft, knowing sound. “Ah. What’d she do this time?”
I look away, exhaling through my nose. “I… have a wife now. And a baby.”
Aunt Mia stops mid-step and spins around, eyes wide. “What? That’s-” she breaks into a grin “-that’s amazing, Matty!”
I can’t help but smile a little at her reaction. I pull my phone out and show her the gallery. It’s filled with pictures of my family. “Penny,” I say softly. “She’s only a few months old.”
Aunt Mia tilts her head toward the phone, her smile tender. “She’s beautiful,” she says, and it sounds like she means it.
It’s exactly what I’d hoped to hear from Ma the day Penny was born. Instead, she’d barely glanced at her before muttering something about how the baby looked nothing like me.
I’d brushed it off at the time, Brooke hadn’t heard, but it was a sign. One of many that I ignored.
I pocket my phone and follow Aunt Mia into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and takes out a carton of milk.
She raises it at me with a little smirk. “You still like hot chocolate?”
“Only yours,” I say, smiling before I can stop myself. Hers was always different, rich and smooth, never boxed or clumpy. Real.
She starts the familiar process, taking out the dark chocolate, whisking the milk, moving around the kitchen like no time has passed at all. I lean against the counter, watching her the way I used to when I was a kid.
Ma worked a lot when I was growing up, she had to. Luckily, we lived with her sister, Mia. She became like a second mom to me. And then, about ten years ago, it just… stopped. She moved out of our lives, and whenever I asked about visiting her, Ma would brush me off.
I was a teenage idiot then, too wrapped up in my own crap to push, but I never forgot her.
“Aunt Mia,” I say slowly, “why’d you leave?”
She stops chopping the chocolate, knife hovering midair. “What’d your Ma tell you?”
I shrug, even though she isn’t looking at me. “Just that you got a job and were busy.”
A dry, bitter little laugh escapes her. “Of course she did.”
I wait.
She looks up at me then, her eyes softer than her voice. “I suppose you’re old enough now.”
I frown, confused, as she drops the chopped chocolate into the warming milk, stirring it gently.
“What did she tell you about your father?”
The question catches me off guard. “Uh… just that he went to visit his family, panicked about becoming a dad, and never came back.”
She nods slowly, like she expected that. “Yeah. I got that story too.”
I stare at her, my chest tightening.
The smell of chocolate fills the kitchen, warm and sweet. She goes quiet as she pours the hot chocolate into two mismatched mugs, hands me the fuller one, just like she used to, and walks to the living room.
I follow, looking around. Instead of a sofa, she has a big, overstuffed recliner and a rocking chair angled toward the TV. She settles into the rocker, wrapping a blanket around her legs. I sink into the recliner across from her, the mug warm between my palms.
I follow her into the living room, looking around. Instead of a sofa, there’s an overstuffed recliner and a rocking chair angled toward the TV.
She settles into the rocker, pulling a faded quilt over her legs. I sink into the recliner across from her, the mug warm between my palms, the steam curling up between us.
She studies me for a moment, then says softly, “That used to be my husband’s chair.”
I shift forward, about to stand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
She reaches out, stopping me with a small wave of her hand. “Stay. It’s not like he’s using it anymore. He passed last year.”
The words hit soft but heavy. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Mia.”
She gives a little shrug, her eyes going distant for a beat. “I loved and I lost. But I’m glad I loved.” Then she looks at me again, something maternal in her voice. “Like I’m sure you do.”
I look down at my mug, the foam rippling on the surface of the hot chocolate. “Brooke and I… we’re fighting.” My voice cracks a little on the last word. “She refuses to see my point, and I… reacted badly.”
Aunt Mia raises an eyebrow. “Did you try to see her point?”
I drag a hand down my face. “I want her to stay home with our daughter. But she wants to work.”
I expect her to agree, she lived with us, well into her forties because she didn’t want me to be alone when Ma worked late. But instead, she just tilts her head and asks, “Why?”
I blink at her. “So, our daughter can have her,” I say finally. “Like I had you.”
Aunt Mia smiles softly. “Like you didn’t have your mother, you mean.”
I shrug helplessly. “She was working. I’m giving Brooke the chance not to.”
Aunt Mia takes a slow, deep breath, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “The reason I left all those years ago,” she begins quietly, “was because your Ma asked me to pay rent.”
I frown a little, waiting, because that doesn’t exactly sound unfair on its own.
“I agreed,” she goes on, “because while you were little, you needed me at home. But by then, you were in high school. You had friends. A life. So, I went back to work and gave your Ma most of my pay check to help.”
I nod slowly.
“Then one day,” she says, her voice going lower, steadier, “there was this check in the mail. Addressed to your Ma. I opened it. It was the last instalment of an insurance payout.” She glances at me. “A pretty significant amount of money.”
My pulse ticks up a notch.
“When she came home, I asked her about it. She didn’t just get angry that I opened her mail. She got furious. So furious she didn’t even realize she let it slip that the insurance money was from a policy for Matthew Caldwell.” She pauses. “Your father.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
She nods slowly. “He died when your Ma was pregnant with you. She was the beneficiary. Turns out most of those ‘networking events’ she claimed to be going to weren’t exactly that. She was living off the payout and working enough to keep up appearances. She didn’t want anyone to know.”
I grip the mug tighter, not wanting to believe her.
“She lied to you,” Aunt Mia says softly. “And to me.”