Chapter 25 Kairo
KAIRO
Ben is curled up like a comma in the middle of his bed, arms tucked under his cheek, mouth half-open in the soft, slack way only children manage. His lashes—long and unfair—flutter against flushed cheeks, and his little chest rises and falls with each even breath.
I lean against the doorframe and just… watch.
He has no idea his world is balancing on the edge of a sentence.
The truth hums under my ribs like a swarm of angry wasps. It’s time. Gods, it’s past time. I’ve played this scene in my head a hundred ways—me sitting on the edge of his bed, his tiny hands in mine, my voice trembling but calm as I say the words:
“Ben, I want to tell you about your father.”
I always imagined it would be in a moment like this. Soft morning light. Peace. Just us.
Not pressure. Not consequence.
But moments like this don’t hold forever.
They slip.
And when they do, the damage is often irreparable.
I step inside, bare feet sinking into the rug beside his bed. My fingers twitch. I want to touch his hair, but I don’t. He always wakes up if I do. Sensitive little sensors in his temples. Just like—
No. Not just like. There’s no “just like.” That’s the whole damn point.
I sit down anyway. Gently. The mattress sighs beneath me.
“Ben,” I whisper.
He stirs, nose scrunching. Then his eyes flutter open. Sleepy, squinting, confused.
“Hi,” he mumbles.
“Hey, baby.”
He stretches like a starfish, limbs everywhere, and then rolls toward me. “Is it school time?”
“Almost.” I brush imaginary lint off his pajama top. “I wanted to talk to you before.”
He blinks again. “Did I do something?”
“No.” I smile, soft. “You’re perfect. I just… I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Something really important.”
He props himself on one elbow, expression serious in that way only five-year-olds manage—like the weight of the universe could fit between their brows.
“I’m listening.”
I open my mouth.
And before a single syllable comes out, he tilts his head and asks:
“Is Mr. Kuraken going away again?”
I freeze.
Something sharp and ancient cracks inside my chest.
“Why do you ask that?”
He shrugs. Looks down. Picks at a loose thread on his blanket. “He was gone before. Then he was back. Then you yelled. Then he was gone again. But now he’s kinda back. I just wanna know if he’s gonna leave.”
I stare at him.
Five years old, and already bracing for people to vanish.
Because I taught him how to expect that.
“I…” My throat closes.
He glances up at me, eyes too big for his face, and something in me breaks open so completely I’m surprised it doesn’t make a sound.
I lean forward and wrap him in my arms. Tight. Too tight. He doesn’t complain.
He just melts into me.
“Are you okay?” he asks into my shoulder.
I nod against his hair, but it’s a lie.
A messy, maternal lie.
Because I can’t give him answers.
Not yet.
And maybe not ever.
The classroom smells like warm glue and melted crayon wax.
There’s a sort of pre-performance buzz crackling in the air—the low hum of kids trying to act calm while vibrating with nerves.
Paper stars hang from the ceiling on fishing wire.
One of them’s already halfway untethered and drifting like it’s got stage fright.
I’m standing in the back, next to Principal Jennings, who looks like she’d rather be doing dental surgery than attending a kindergarten play.
“What’s this one called again?” she asks me in a tone that suggests it’s not really a question.
I glance at the flyer taped crookedly to the door. “‘The Kind Pirate and the Galaxy Cupcake.’”
She closes her eyes like she’s summoning patience from another dimension. “Of course.”
The lights dim.
A recording of classical space-opera music starts up—slightly too loud, slightly too glitchy—and the curtain (which is actually just a refitted shower screen) slides open.
Jav is crouched in the wings, feeding lines to a kid in a pirate hat that keeps sliding over his eyes. “Say it like you mean it, Zay,” Jav whispers. “You’re a pirate, not a politician.”
Zay nods gravely and charges onstage. “ARRR! I seek the sacred cupcake of the galaxy, but only if it be fair trade and free of allergens!”
The parents laugh. The teachers clap.
The play continues in utter chaos.
There’s a talking starfish with a speech impediment. A sentient cupcake that sings. A villain named “Dark Choco-lord” who’s defeated by a hug. The kids are clearly making up half the lines as they go, and Jav just rolls with it, improvising like a pro.
When the starfish forgets their cue, Jav steps in as “Captain Good-vibes” with a cape made out of a cafeteria tray and a glue stick wand. He dances. Dances. The kind of ridiculous, full-body commitment that says, I have no shame and I love these kids.
They love him back.
You can see it in their faces. The way they look at him like he’s the coolest grown-up alive. Like he hung the very paper stars above their heads. Like they’d follow him to the ends of the quadrant if he promised there’d be juice boxes and stickers.
Ben’s the cupcake, of course. Foam frosting hat and all.
When he trips over a moon prop and faceplants into a galaxy mat, Jav rushes onstage, scoops him up, and spins it into the ending:
“And thus, the Cupcake of Compassion saved us all… with sprinkles!”
The place erupts.
Tiny claps. Squeals. A standing ovation from one dad who’s definitely been sipping from a “coffee” thermos that smells suspiciously like space rum.
The lights go up.
The kids bow, mostly out of sync.
Jav gives a little salute, and all the parents start mobbing the front for pictures.
I stay in the back.
Still.
Something tightens in my chest, and I realize it’s the same thing I felt last night on that rooftop.
Possibility.
Not certainty. Not even comfort.
But possibility.
Jennings exhales beside me. “I hate how good he is at this.”
I glance at her.
She shrugs. “I wanted to fire him six times this semester. But then he turns a fire drill into a lesson about teamwork and suddenly the whole class stops biting each other.”
I smile. Just barely.
“Think he’s got a future here?”
She eyes me.
“He’s already got one. It just depends who’s brave enough to let him keep it.”
Ben falls asleep early that night, still wearing part of his frosting costume. I carry him to bed, tuck him in, and kiss his forehead without waking him.
In the doorway, I linger.
My heart’s a mess of threads and tangled lines, but I know this:
The children don’t lie.
They don’t pretend to love someone. They don’t perform admiration.
They feel it. Instinctively. Clearly.
And they know.
They know who’s safe.
Who’s good.
Who belongs.
And no matter how hard I try to deny it—they see Jav.
Maybe it’s time I start seeing him too.