Chapter 30 Stephanie
STEPHANIE
The whistle blows, and the kids scatter like marbles, chasing the ball, but Jackson just… jogs.
My son is usually all speed and energy, charging toward the goal like his life depends on it, but lately, he’s been hanging back, almost letting the game pass him by.
His cleats barely kick up dirt. His eyes don’t light up when someone passes him the ball, and he hardly seems to notice when someone steals it from right under his nose.
I stand on the sidelines with my arms wrapped defensively around my waist, telling myself not to panic.
Kids have off days, right?
But this isn’t just one day.
This has been creeping in, day by day, until it’s turned into weeks.
When the game ends, Jackson barely waves at me. He trudges over, cheeks pink from the sun but not from excitement.
“Good game, Jay,” I say, ruffling his hair.
He shrugs. “We lost.”
“You still played well.”
Another shrug. “Can we just go?”
It’s like that at home too.
He used to beg to go to Tanner or Chase’s before dinner to practice soccer or play video games, but he hasn’t shown interest in school or his friends for weeks.
He spends more time in his room, more time alone.
Last week, I got a phone call from Mrs. Vance, his teacher, saying he’d been arguing with kids in class.
That was unusual, but I brushed it off.
Seven can be a hard age.
Then, yesterday morning, she caught me as I was dropping him off before school.
“Ms. Cook,” she said, lowering her voice. “Is everything okay at home?”
I blinked at her. “Why?”
“Jackson just… seems quieter lately. Withdrawn. Not his usual self.”
And there it was again—that slow leak, that warning sign I’ve been ignoring because I didn’t want to name it.
Now, as we walk home from soccer practice, Jackson stares absently at his feet, his energy low and his toes scuffing the sidewalk like it’s too much effort to pick them up.
I feel the concern sitting heavily in my chest. Something’s wrong.
And I think I know what it is, but I dread the consequences of asking.
When we get home from practice, Jackson tromps upstairs to wash up and change out of his soccer clothes while I head into the kitchen to prepare lunch.
It’s Saturday, and I can feel the weekend yawning before us when I think about waiting until he’s ready to tell me what’s bothering him.
I can’t let this keep going.
The house is quiet—too quiet for a weekend.
So, when I finish making us each a turkey sandwich, I head into the living room to find Jackson sitting cross-legged on the floor with his LEGOs.
But he’s not building anything.
He’s just holding one piece, turning it over in his hand.
Settling onto the floor beside him, I pass him his plate, and he accepts it.
But then he just sets it aside without taking a bite.
“Not hungry?” I ask, my heart constricting.
Jackson shrugs, keeping his eyes on the LEGO pieces.
Willing myself to be strong, I swallow hard and set my own sandwich aside. “Hey, can I talk to you?”
He looks up at me, wary. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” I say quickly, scooting closer. “Not at all. I just… I want to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of sad lately.”
He shrugs, eyes darting back to the LEGO pieces, which he starts to shuffle around pointlessly. “I’m fine.”
“Jackson,” I say, drawing his attention back to me with the use of his full name. “You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not. I want to know what’s going on.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. I think maybe he’s going to shut me out completely.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, he says, “I miss Gio.”
The name hits me like a punch. I sit back, my spine straightening as my throat tightens.
“You do?” I manage.
Jackson nods, his eyes dropping. “Yeah… I thought he was my friend.”
Oh God. My chest aches. I thought I’d prepared myself for this conversation, but hearing the truth from his mouth is different—it’s raw, vulnerable, and heartbroken.
“You and Gio were friends,” I assure him softly. “He adores you.”
Jackson’s head snaps up, his eyes blazing in a way I’ve never seen. “Then why did he just leave? He didn’t even say goodbye.”
He sniffles as if he’s fighting the urge to cry, and it brings stinging tears to my eyes.
“Jackson…” I reach out, but he scoots back, and the rejection burns more than I expect. “That’s not what happened. It wasn’t Gio’s choice.”
“What do you mean?” Jackson frowns.
“It was mine,” I admit. My voice sounds small even to my own ears. “Gio is a very nice person, but… he wasn’t the right fit for our family.”
Jackson stares at me like I’ve just told him the sky is green. “You decided that?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice firm but trembling underneath. “I thought it best for us.”
His face goes red, his lip trembling with a fury I didn’t know he was capable of. “You don’t get to decide who my friends are! You didn’t even talk to me about it! You just made a decision, and now I have to live with it!”
The words hit harder than I expect, not because they’re loud, but because they’re coming from him—my sweet, gentle boy who never raises his voice at anyone.
I swallow hard. “I… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Well, you did!” He springs to his feet, fists clenched. “Gio was the best! He took me to soccer games and talked to me about cool stuff. He… he…” His voice breaks. “He wanted to be my friend, and you chased him away!”
I’m frozen, stunned.
Jackson is breathing fast, and before I can find the right words, he bolts for the stairs.
I hear his bedroom door slam, and the echo of it vibrates through my chest.
I stay on the floor for a long time, staring at the scattered LEGOs, and I feel like I’ve failed my son.
When I ended things with Gio—when I told him we couldn’t see each other anymore—I did it to protect Jackson.
My little boy couldn’t possibly know that my decision was one of the hardest I’ve ever had to make.
And it’s been slowly eating away at me ever since, killing me from the inside out because I miss Gio with each agonizing breath.
His absence is a relentless gaping ache in my chest, and I don’t know how to function properly without him.
But when I finally got my memory back, I knew I couldn’t, in good conscience, let Gio back into my life—into Jackson’s life.
Even if Gio isn’t like his father, who ripped my life to shreds just to teach his son a lesson, Gio is still tied to that family, that world. He said it himself.
Still, I have to keep telling myself that I did the right thing.
It’s become something of a mantra in my head that I play on repeat.
And now, as I stare after my son, shouldering his loss and grief on top of my own, I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve found another way.
I can’t ignore the truth anymore—Jackson wasn’t just happy when Gio was around.
He was thriving.
Laughing more, running faster, talking more about his dreams.
He finally had a male figure in his life who looked at him with pride.
And I’d never realized before Gio came into our lives how starved Jackson has been for that.
It’s been just the two of us for as long as Jackson can remember.
And while I’ve done my best to fill every role, there are some things I just can’t be for him.
Gio stepped into those gaps for me without even trying. And I ripped that away without asking my son what he needed.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes because if I don’t, I might cry.
Protecting Jackson was the right thing, I tell myself again.
The Mafia doesn’t fade away because you wish it would, and you don’t invite danger into your home just because it’s wearing a kind smile.
But when I think about Gio—his patience with Jackson, the way his eyes softened when he listened to my son ramble about his favorite soccer players for hours—I can’t help but think he would’ve been an incredible father. If only I’d let him.
It’s nearly dinner before Jackson comes downstairs again.
He doesn’t look at me, just sits at the table, arms folded, as I set a plate of macaroni and cheese before him—a peace offering that I didn’t even put broccoli in this time.
I want to apologize again, to explain more, but I don’t even know where to start.
Because how do you tell a seven-year-old that the man he looks up to and loves has a father who once had me kidnapped? How do you explain that some choices aren’t about what’s fair but about what’s safe?
So I just sit across from him, my fork untouched, watching him push his food around his plate.
Finally, he says without looking up, “You should’ve talked to me first.”
My throat tightens. “You’re right,” I whisper. “I should have.”
He glances at me then, just for a second, and I can see the hurt still there, deep and raw.
And in that moment, I know it’s going to take more than words to fix this.