Chapter 2: The Answer He Didn't Give
The question hung there between us and nobody moved to answer it.
I had asked it with my mouth dry and my arms locked around my son. "Did you come?" My voice had come out smaller than I wanted it to, thin in Diane's kitchen where the light was too bright and everything was too clean. I could feel his little body hot against my chest through his light blue outfit, his breath quick on my neck.
Ethan didn't answer right away.
He stood in the middle of that kitchen with his hands clasped so tight his knuckles had gone white, his white shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his dark trousers catching the sun from Diane's window. His mouth opened and then closed. He looked at me, then past me, toward the doorway where Diane hadn't moved. She stood in her burgundy dress with her gray hair pulled back, her arms at her sides, watching us like she was waiting for her cue.
I felt my son squirm and let out a tired whimper. I shifted him higher on my shoulder without thinking, my hand spread wide across his back.
Ethan finally let out a breath. "Mom texted me," he said.
It wasn't an answer. Not to what I'd asked.
He said it quickly, like he wanted to get it out before it got worse. "She said you were having trouble. With him. That you brought him over and he was fussy and you were upset. She said I should come calm things down."
The words landed slow. I stared at him. The cream cabinets behind him, the white marble island to my left, all of it stayed bright and still.
"You came to calm her down," I said.
Ethan shook his head, but not really. "I came because she was worried. She thought you needed—"
"I texted you at nine," I said. My voice was steady now. Too steady. "I called you at ten. I left a message that he had a fever at midnight. You didn't answer any of it."
Diane made a small sound in the doorway then, a soft click of her tongue, and stepped forward one step. Just one. Her shoes didn't make a noise on the tile.
"Ethan, honey, that's not helpful right now," she said, and her tone was calm, even kind, the way you'd talk to someone who was overreacting. She looked at me then, not unkindly, but with that flat, measured assessment she'd had since I first walked into this house. "Maya, you shouldn't have brought him out like this. He's clearly overtired. And you're exhausted. Let me take him to the back bedroom where it's quiet and cool. You're holding him too tight, you're getting him worked up."
She said it like an offer. She even held out her hands a little as she came closer, palms up, fingers soft. As if I would just hand him over.
I felt my whole body go tight. My son's cheek was damp against my collarbone. The white textured sleeves of my dress were wrinkled where I'd been clutching him for hours. I could feel Diane's eyes on the way I held him, and Ethan's eyes on me, and the light coming through the window so bright it hurt.
Diane reached the edge of the island. She was close enough now that I could see the fine lines around her mouth, the absolute stillness in her expression.
"Just for a few minutes," she said quietly. "You'll feel better."
Ethan looked between us. He didn't move toward me. He said, "Maya, maybe—"
I didn't let him finish. I pulled my son closer. Both arms locked around him, my chin tucking down over his head without me deciding to do it. My shoulders turned, just barely, so my body was between Diane's hands and his back. It was a small movement. It felt enormous.
"No," I said.
The word came out low and clear. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't have to.
Diane's hands stayed where they were for a second longer, then lowered. Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes tightened.
Ethan stared at me, his hands still clasped, his mouth slightly open again. He looked shocked all over again, like he hadn't expected me to say no to her in her own kitchen.
May you like
I held my son tighter and felt his heat seep through both our clothes, and in that second I understood it completely. Ethan hadn't come because I'd asked him to. He'd come because Diane had told him to. He was standing in his mother's kitchen trying to keep the peace she'd decided needed keeping, and I was the trouble that needed calming.
Nobody moved. The kitchen stayed bright and silent around us, and my son let out another small, restless cry against my chest that neither of them reached for.
