Chapter 3
The kitchen didn't get quiet after I stopped the playback. It got louder in a different way.
Leo's crying had gone from that sharp, squeezed-shut wail to the hitched, wet breathing he did when he was trying not to cry and couldn't stop. His face was red and damp. His little hands were fisted in his overalls. Martha was still by the glass door with her arms crossed tight over her navy coat like she was cold. Connor stood frozen by the island where I'd set the phone down, his mouth still open from whatever he'd been about to say before Leo's question landed.
I didn't look at either of them again. I just went to Leo.
He was standing halfway between the island and the hallway, too close to where Connor had been yelling, too close to Martha. I bent down and his whole body leaned into me before I even touched him. I got my hands under his arms. He was heavier than he looked in those denim overalls, solid and warm and shaking.
"Hey, buddy," I said, quiet. "I've got you."
He wrapped his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist like he used to do when he was smaller. His cheek was wet against my collarbone. I could feel his heart hammering through his striped shirt.
I didn't ask permission. I just turned and carried him out of that kitchen.
The living area was only ten feet away, same open floor, same wood floor continuing under a faded rug and a low couch, but it felt like a different room once I stepped onto the rug. The recessed lights were softer in here, and the blinds were half-closed against the afternoon. Leo's toy trucks were scattered by the coffee table where he'd left them that morning. I sat down on the edge of the couch with him in my lap and kept one hand on his back, rubbing slow circles the way that usually helped.
Martha didn't follow. I could hear her shoes shift on the wood behind me, but she stayed by the door. Connor stayed by the island for a second longer, then I heard his boots.
Leo's breathing was still ragged against my black turtleneck. I pressed my cheek to the top of his curly hair. It smelled like apples from his shampoo.
"You okay?" I whispered. "You're safe right here."
He didn't answer at first. He just held tighter. Then his voice came out very small, right against my neck, barely louder than a breath.
"Why does everyone hit mom?"
The same words from the video, but quieter now. Not confused for the room. Just for me. His face was still buried, so I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt his shoulders start to shake again.
I closed my eyes for a second. The sting in my cheek was still there, a hot, throbbing ache that pulsed every time I swallowed. I made myself breathe before I answered. He was two feet tall and he'd just watched the two adults who were supposed to protect him do the opposite.
I shifted him so I could see his face. I used the hem of my sleeve to wipe his cheeks, gentle.
"Hey, look at me," I said. "No one should hit Mom. And no one should hit you. It's not okay when grown-ups do that. Grown-ups are supposed to use words."
He blinked at me, his teary eyes searching mine. His bottom lip trembled.
"But you got hit," he said.
"I did," I said. I kept my voice even. It took effort. "And that was wrong. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't because you did anything wrong. Sometimes grown-ups make a very bad choice when they're angry and they don't stop to look first. That doesn't make it okay."
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"A little," I said. "But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
That seemed to be what he needed. He nodded once, hard, and tucked his head back down onto my shoulder. His breathing started to even out, just slightly. I kept rubbing his back. Over his head I could see the kitchen. Martha had moved to the island and was picking up the phone, then setting it down again without quite touching it. Like she wanted to make it disappear.
Connor came around the couch. He crouched down in front of us, his olive bomber jacket rustling. His face was pale now, the anger gone, replaced by something that looked like nausea. His eyes kept flicking from Leo to the red mark on my cheek that I knew was there without looking in a mirror.
"Victoria," he said, his voice hoarse. "Victoria, can I— let me—"
He reached out. Not fast, not grabbing. His hand hovered, then moved toward my shoulder, toward Leo's back, like he wanted to touch us both and prove he could be gentle.
I flinched.
I didn't mean to. It wasn't a big movement. My shoulder pulled back half an inch and my whole body tightened around Leo. But Connor saw it. His hand stopped mid-air.
His expression changed. For the first time since he burst through that glass door, he seemed to actually see what he'd done instead of what he'd thought he was defending.
He pulled his hand back like he'd touched something hot. He stayed crouched, hands on his knees, and looked at the floor.
"I'm sorry," he said. But it was thin and he stopped himself. He looked up at Leo, then at me. "I didn't— I didn't check. I just—"
I didn't answer him. I didn't nod to make it easier for him. I just held Leo, who had gone still again, listening.
"You scared him," I said quietly. Not yelling. Just stating it. "You scared me."
Connor swallowed. His jaw worked. He didn't try to touch me again.
"I know," he said.
Behind him, Martha cleared her throat. "Connor, honey, let's not—"
"Not now, Mom," he said without turning around. His voice wasn't angry anymore. It was flat. Exhausted.
May you like
Leo had stopped crying. His eyes were heavy, his cheek still pressed to my turtleneck, his thumb finding its way to his mouth the way it did when he was finally calming down. He was still in my arms, and I wasn't putting him down.
Connor stayed on the floor in front of the couch, close enough that I could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, far enough that he wasn't touching us. He finally understood the distance.
