Chapter 9
The light that afternoon was gray and flat against the windows. It was my third afternoon back, and we had fallen into a routine that didn't need talking about.
I let myself in with the code Ricardo had texted me, wiped my shoes on the mat, and found Leo in the living room. He was on the rug with his legs tucked under him, his cream sweater a little big at the sleeves. The clear glass was in front of him on the low table, half-filled with milk, untouched. He wasn't crying. He was just looking at it like he was waiting for it to do something.
I set my bag down and sat on the floor a few feet away, not next to him. The apartment was quiet except for the radiator clicking. I didn't ask him to drink.
After a minute he pulled the glass closer with both hands. He held it but didn't lift it. His breathing was shallow and even. I kept my own breathing steady so he could hear it if he wanted to.
"You can just hold it," I said quietly.
He nodded, his curls moving. We stayed like that. The gray light made the wood floor look cooler than it was.
Then his fingers tightened around the glass. His shoulders came up just a little. He didn't look at me when he said it. His voice was small and clear.
"I miss mom."
I felt my chest pull tight, but I didn't move to fix it. I had practiced what I would do if he said those words, and the practice was to do almost nothing.
I kept my eyes soft on him. "You miss mom," I said back, the same words, same quiet.
He blinked and a tear ran down his cheek and caught on his chin. He didn't wipe it. He just held the glass and breathed.
I didn't correct him. I didn't tell him she was watching over him or that it would be okay or that big boys don't cry. I didn't ask him where mom was or try to distract him with a toy. I just let the silence sit there with us.
"Yeah," I whispered after a breath. "You miss her."
He exhaled then, a long shaky breath, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He rested the glass back down on the table and left his hands around it.
In the hallway doorway, the floor creaked. I glanced up.
Ricardo was standing just inside the living room, his hand still on the doorframe. He was in a dark sweater today, not the suit, his watch catching the gray light. He had clearly heard. His face went completely still.
For a second I thought he would step forward and scoop Leo up or start explaining. He didn't. He froze there, his jaw tight, his eyes on Leo's back. Then he looked at me. I gave him a small nod, not a signal to take over, just to stay.
He swallowed and lowered himself slowly to his knees, then to the floor. He didn't come all the way to the rug at first. He knelt a few feet from Leo, the way I had, at Leo's level instead of above him. His hands resting on his thighs, tattoos visible.
Leo didn't turn around. He kept his hands on the glass.
Ricardo moved a little closer, careful with his knees on the rug, until he was beside his son, not in front of him. He didn't reach for the glass or for Leo. He just sat there.
"We're right here," Ricardo said, his voice low and rough. He wasn't talking to me. He was talking to Leo, but he kept it simple, copying the tone he'd seen me use.
Leo finally looked up at him, eyes wet, mouth pressed small. Ricardo didn't tell him to be strong. He just breathed with him.
After a moment Ricardo shifted so his shoulder was near Leo's, not crowding him, and they both looked at the milk glass between them on the low table. Leo's hands stayed on it. Ricardo's hand rested nearby, not touching, just there.
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Leo wasn't calm in the way of being cheerful. His face was still sad, his cheeks still damp. But he wasn't panicked. He was sad and he was sitting in it, and we were sitting with him.
I stayed where I was on the other side of the table, close enough that Leo could see me if he looked, far enough that this was theirs. The radiator kept clicking. The gray light didn't change. Leo took another slow breath, and Ricardo matched it without thinking, and I watched the two of them sit together with that glass of milk between them and no one trying to take it away.
