Chapter 1 #10
He shakes his head, his hair brushing my jaw. "No?" I smile. "Daddy dressed you well. That's why you're not cold."
Before I can cling to him a second longer, Gio steps over. Doesn't touch me. Doesn't say excuse me. Just lifts Antonio right out of my arms. "Come on. Bath time," he says to him.
My hands fall empty to my sides. Antonio looks back at me over Gio's shoulder, lip pushed out just a bit. There's this sad, confused look in his eyes, like he can feel the distance even if he doesn't understand it.
I force a tiny smile at him and wiggle my fingers in a wave. "Go," I whisper. "It's okay."
They disappear toward the bathroom together.
The second the bathroom door closes, I break again.
Even though I wasn't planning to. I am staring at the empty space where Antonio was in my arms two seconds ago, feeling like someone just yanked my entire life out of my chest and walked off with it.
The house is quiet, except for the water starting in the bathroom.
I sit down on the floor, right there by the bed, back against the side of it. Then I slide further until I'm basically just folded on myself, knees up, arms around them.
The second my head drops, the tears come. I press my face into my knees and try to breathe.
My eyes burn, my nose is blocked, my throat hurts. Every breath feels wrong. Is this it? Is this gonna be my life now? I know I fucked up. I know it. I've replayed it a thousand times in my head already. I know I made a tragic mistake.
But I don't think I deserve the death penalty for it. That's what it feels like, a little. Like I'm being sentenced. He took Antonio straight out of my arms. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, but more tears replace them immediately.
I'm not a monster. I would never hurt Antonio.
I would literally die before I let something happen to him. But that's the thing, right? It almost did. And it was my fault. It doesn't matter that I didn't know. It doesn't matter that I didn't do it on purpose.
The risk was real. It walked into our house and touched our things and could've touched our child because I opened the door like a polite idiot.
So now what? Do I just... step back? Let Gio do everything? Let him protect them from me? I bury my face in my hands and sob harder. My whole body shakes with it.
I'm so tired of crying, but every time I try to stop, my brain just goes back.
I always thought I was at least... careful. Responsible enough. Soft, yeah, but not stupid. Now I'm not sure. Is this the part where I do them a favor and leave? Is that what good husbands do when they become the weak link?
If you weren't here, this wouldn't have happened.
If you weren't here, he'd be safer.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop it, trying to breathe it away.
It doesn't work. I didn't expect that from Gio.
The whole taking-Antonio-away thing. I really didn't. That's what broke me.
That exact second. His arm brushing mine as he took him.
Antonio looking back at me over his shoulder, confused.
In that one tiny, stupid moment, I felt like the worst person on the planet. Do I really deserve this? Maybe I do. But at the same time, there's this stubborn part of me that wants to stand up and scream.
I made one terrible mistake. One. I know it's huge, I know it's bad, I know it put us at risk, but I don't deserve to be erased from my own family.
I don't deserve to be treated like a stranger you don't trust with your kid. I love him. I love both of you. Can't you see that? Another wave of sobs hits and I press my palms over my eyes until they hurt.
A few minutes later, I hear tiny feet on the floor. I lift my head. It's Antonio, waddling toward me with damp curls stuck to his forehead, zipped up in his full-body pajamas like a little marshmallow.
I scrub my face with my hands fast, smearing whatever's left of the tears away, and force a smile. "Well, what are you doing out here, bean?" I ask, trying to sound playful. "Does Daddy know you escaped?"
"No," he says very seriously. "He's taking bath."
"Oh, so you snuck out?" I raise a brow.
He nods, laughing. I open my arms and he comes straight into them. I pull him onto my lap and press him against my chest, his head fitting perfectly right under my chin. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in that clean, warm smell.
"Dada, why you crying?" he mumbles into my shirt.
"I'm not crying," I say quickly, with a little laugh. He leans back just enough to look at my face, squinting like a tiny detective. "You cry."
Well. Okay. Busted. "Alright," I sigh. "You got me."
"Daddy do something bad?" he asks, little frown appearing between his brows. That one hurts.
"No, baby," I say softly. "He didn't do anything. I did."
"What you did?"
I exhale slowly, eyes drifting to the wall for a second while I try to find words that won't screw him up for life. How do I explain to a kid that I've been teaching him to be kind and polite and helpful, and then everything blew up in my face because I did exactly that with the wrong people?
How do I tell him, "Be good, but not too good. Be kind, but only if it's safe. Trust people, but actually, don't trust people ever." My brain knots itself.
"All people make mistakes," I start, talking slowly so he can follow. "Some small, some big. Today, I made a... kind of big one. By accident."
He studies my face. "What mistake you did, Dada?
" he asks. I look at him and for a second, I feel completely out of my depth.
I've been a parent for a while now and sometimes I still feel like I'm playing pretend, like someone's going to walk in and say, "Okay, shift is over, give him back to the real adults. "
Sometimes I feel like I need a parent more than he does. Someone to tell me, you didn't ruin everything. This isn't the end of the world. A solution will show up. You don't deserve the absolute worst version of punishment for one mistake.
But there's nobody else here. It's just me. And him. And my fuckup. I clear my throat. "I trusted some people I shouldn't have," I say finally. "I thought they were good. I was... nice to them. And they weren't good. That's the mistake."
He tilts his head. "Like bad guys?"
"Yeah," I say, swallowing. "Like bad guys."
"But you not bad," he says immediately. "You my dada."
I almost lose it again. I hug him tighter, pressing his little head back against my chest so he doesn't see my face twist. "No," I whisper into his hair. "I'm not bad. I just... did something not smart."
He pats my arm clumsily, copying the way we comfort him when he cries. "It's okay," he says. "Next time do small mistake." A wet laugh escapes me. "Yeah," I breathe. "I'll try really hard for a smaller one next time."
Gio comes out of the bathroom a little later, hair damp, no shirt. I don't say anything. I stand up with Antonio, set him down gently with his toy, and grab my things.
My toothbrush, my face wash, my towel. "Gonna wash up," I mumble, and head to the bathroom. I don't even look to see if he reacts. I close the door behind me and stare at myself in the mirror for a second.
My eyes are puffy, nose red, cheeks still blotchy even after crying dried. I look like shit. Not even a dramatic kind of shit. Just tired, guilty shit.
I wash my face slowly. Cold water, hands moving in little circles, trying to wipe away the day, the noise, the look in his eyes when he saw the house. I brush my teeth, stare at the tiles, count how many cracks there are around the edge of the sink just so I don't think too much.
I don't even know if it's a good idea to go lie down next to him. I have no idea what it feels like in his chest right now. To have his bike gone. To know our home was ripped apart. To walk in and see everything he worked for turned upside down because I opened a door.
But then again, why doesn't he think about how I feel either? He knows my brain. Better than anyone. He has to know how fucking awful I feel.
How I'm chewing myself alive from the inside. It's not like I'm playing it cool. I've cried enough today for three people. And he's not doing anything to help me calm down.
Maybe it's bold of me to even expect that from him. To think, "He should know. He should come to me. He should say something." Now that I say it in my head, yeah. Maybe I'm asking too much from someone who literally just got robbed.
Fine. I'll accept that.
I'll take my punishment, I guess, and just hope that one day, maybe, he'll look at me again the way he did before all this. Like I wasn't the reason he had to move his entire life in one afternoon. I spit, rinse, wash my mouth, pat my face dry with the towel. My stomach is in knots.
I take a breath, then put my hand on the doorknob. When I open the door, he's right there. Standing in front of me. I freeze.
Instinct kicks in and I immediately shuffle sideways, making space for him to pass. I keep my eyes down, every muscle bracing for him to brush past me like I'm invisible.
Instead, he reaches out. His hands grab me and he pulls me in. I slam into him with a small "oh," as his arms wrap around me and lock there.
I stand stiff for half a second, then I melt. He doesn't let go. If anything, he holds me tighter. One of his hands stays locked around my waist, the other slides up, fingers spreading over my back. He starts rubbing slowly, up and down, over the tense muscles there.
It's such a small thing. But my shoulders drop without me telling them to. My jaw unclenches. I didn't even realize how hard I was biting down until I stop. I let out this shaky breath against his chest, and he feels it.
His hand keeps moving on my back. "It's okay," he mutters, so low I almost miss it. "Calm down." I squeeze my eyes shut, nodding against him.
My fingers curl into the back of his shirt. He pulls his head back just enough to look at me. I know my eyes are red, nose probably pink, the full tragic mess, but he doesn't flinch.