Chapter 8
The pick-up line at Jefferson Elementary moved inch by inch and I watched Sophie in my rearview mirror. She hadn't taken her cardigan off even though it was seventy degrees out. The grey sleeves were pulled down over her hands and she was picking at the button near her throat.
She'd been quiet since I'd buckled her in. That morning she'd found me at the kitchen table with the bank emails printed out, my hands shaking a little after what Helena had said the night before about the apartment and what help looked like when I had no one else.
"Mom," she said as we turned onto our street. Her voice was small. "Did grandma lie about Daddy being dead?"
I felt my foot ease off the gas. I pulled over by the curb instead of going straight to our building and put the car in park. I could see her eyes on me in the mirror, wide and trying not to cry.
I turned around in my seat so I was facing her. Her stained light shirt showed under the cardigan where the collar had curled. I'd tried to bleach that spot last year and it never really came out. She always wanted to wear it anyway.
"That's a really important question," I said. I took a breath. "Grandma told us something that wasn't true. Your dad is alive. He's been alive the whole time. And he didn't stop helping us. He sent money every month to take care of you."
She frowned, her brow doing that little furrow she gets when she's trying to do math in her head. "Why would she say he was dead then?"
I had rehearsed this in my head for three years without ever saying it out loud. I didn't want to make Helena into a monster in Sophie's mind. She was still the woman who picked her up from kindergarten when I had to work late.
"I don't know all of why yet," I said. "Sometimes grown-ups make a wrong choice because they're scared or they want things to stay a certain way. That doesn't make it okay. But it doesn't mean she doesn't love you either. Both things can be true. What matters is that your dad is here now, and he wants to know you, if you want that."
Sophie looked down at her hands. "He has tattoos on his neck," she whispered. "Like a dragon?"
"Yeah," I said. "He does."
"Is he mad at grandma?"
I thought about Roman's voice in the ballroom. I've sent 50,000 every month. Tell me where it went. "I think he's sad and he's trying to figure out the truth, just like us."
I reached back and tucked a pigtail behind her ear. She didn't pull away.
That evening in the apartment, I was folding laundry on the couch while Sophie sat at the small kitchen table drawing. Roman had texted that afternoon asking if he could drop off the library books Sophie had mentioned. I had said yes before I could talk myself out of it. The threat Helena had left me with — that without her help the rent, the school, everything got harder — was still ringing in my ears. Saying yes to Roman felt like choosing a harder path on purpose.
When he knocked, Sophie froze with her crayon in midair.
I opened the door and Roman stood there in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, his suit gone, his hands empty except for two picture books. He looked smaller without the ballroom lights, but his hair was still slicked back and the tattoos were stark against his skin.
"Hey," he said quietly, looking past me to Sophie. "I remembered you liked dragons."
Sophie didn't answer. She stared at him, then at the books, then back at her drawing.
Roman crouched down a little so he wasn't towering over the table. He set the books down at the edge and then stepped back, giving her space. "You don't have to read them with me now. They're yours either way."
For a long minute the only sound was the refrigerator humming. Sophie slid off her chair. She walked over slowly, not to the books, but to where Roman stood near the door. She stopped a foot away and looked up at him.
Then she reached out and pinched the edge of his jacket sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. Just held it. She didn't grab his hand. She didn't hug him. She just held that little piece of fabric and stood there.
Roman went completely still. I saw his throat move as he swallowed. He didn't move his hand to cover hers. He just let her hold on.
I felt something shift in my chest then. It wasn't forgiveness or relief. It was clarity. For three years I'd kept Sophie in that stained shirt because I couldn't afford to replace the things Helena said we didn't need, and I'd told myself stability was the same as safety.
Sophie looked over at me while still holding his sleeve, as if to check that this was allowed.
"It's okay," I said, and my voice cracked a little. "You can hold on if you want to."
Roman's eyes met mine over Sophie's head. I gave him a small nod. He nodded back, barely moving.
After he left, Sophie climbed into my lap even though she was getting too big for it. She smelled like crayons and apple juice.
"Are we still going to live here?" she asked into my neck.
I held her tighter and looked at the stack of unopened mail from Helena's foundation on the counter. I didn't have an answer that would keep everything safe.
May you like
"We're going to find out the whole truth," I said. "Together. Even if it's scary. Because you deserve the real story, not just the easy one. I promise."
She nodded against me, and I knew I'd just made it harder to go back.
