Chapter 8
I carried Leo down the hall and his head rested against my collarbone. He was heavier than usual, the way tired kids get heavy, all his weight settling into my arms. The house had gone quiet. Connor was downstairs with the kitchen lights still on, and I didn't look back.
Leo's bedroom was cool. I'd left the night light on earlier, the little warm plug-in by the bookshelf that threw a soft circle on the ceiling. The curtains were closed. His bed was unmade from that morning, the small quilt bunched up at the foot, his stuffed rabbit face down in the pillow.
I set him on the edge of the bed and knelt so we were eye level. My cheek still throbbed, a dull heat under the skin, but I kept my hand steady.
"Hey, bug," I whispered. "Let's get you cozy."
He didn't answer right away. He watched my face the way he'd been watching it since the kitchen, his eyes moving slow from my eyes to my cheek and back again. He breathed through his mouth.
I pulled his overalls down over his shoulders and he lifted his arms for me. Underneath his striped shirt had ridden up and I smoothed it down. His hair was still damp at the temples from crying. I took his socks off one at a time and tucked them into his shoes by the door, the little routine we'd done a hundred times.
He climbed under the quilt himself and I pulled it up to his chest. The rabbit went back under his arm. He held it tight.
I sat on the floor next to the bed, my back against the wall, so I wasn't hovering over him. The wood floor was cold through my skirt. I left the main light off. Just the night light and the hall light spilling in.
For a minute we just breathed. I listened to the heat click on.
Then he said it, very quietly. Not the same words as in the kitchen. Smaller.
"Mommy, why did the hitting happen?"
My chest tightened. He wasn't looking at me now. He was looking at the ceiling where the night light made its circle, his thumb rubbing the rabbit's ear.
I took a slow breath. I wanted to tell him everything and nothing at once.
"I know that was scary," I said. I kept my voice even. "You saw something no kid should have to see."
He nodded, just a small movement.
"Did I do something?" he asked. "Was it because I was loud?"
"No," I said, quick and clear. "No, honey. It was not because of you. Not at all. You did nothing wrong."
He turned his head to look at me. His eyes were wet again but he wasn't crying hard, just a shine.
"Grown-ups are supposed to keep their hands gentle," I said. "When they don't, that's a grown-up mistake. Not yours. And my job is to keep you safe. That's what I'm going to do."
I didn't say anything about Martha. I didn't say anything about Connor that Leo could carry as a weight against his dad. I wanted to, the words were right there, but I swallowed them. He was three. He needed a fact he could hold, not a story about blame.
"Are we safe now?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We're safe in this room. I'm right here. No more hitting tonight. No more yelling in here."
He reached his hand out from under the quilt. His fingers were warm. I took his hand in mine. His grip was strong for such a small hand.
"Will you stay?" he whispered.
"I'm staying," I said. "I'm not going anywhere until you're asleep. And even after, I'm just down the hall."
He shifted onto his side, facing me, his hand still in mine, the rabbit squished between his arm and his chest. His eyelids started to droop. He fought it for a minute, opening them wide, then letting them fall again.
I brushed his curls back from his forehead with my free hand. His breathing got slower, deeper. Every few breaths he squeezed my hand to check I was still there, and I squeezed back.
I sat there in that dim light and finally let myself understand what his question had really been. It wasn't why did that person hit that person. It was will it happen again, and will you let it happen to me. He'd watched hands that were supposed to protect him turn into hands that hurt, and he didn't know where he stood in that equation anymore. That was the fear I had to answer, not with a speech but with staying.
His hand went slack. His mouth fell open a little. The rabbit slipped an inch and I tucked it back. The night light hummed faintly.
May you like
I stayed on the floor long after he was asleep, his small hand holding two of my fingers, my knees pulled up, the hallway quiet. I stared at the closed curtains and the familiar glow and made a decision I could feel settle in my bones. He would not fall asleep like this again, listening for footsteps, holding on to make sure I didn't disappear. I would move whatever needed moving — people, rules, doors — to make sure he never had to ask that question twice.
I didn't wake him. I didn't let go.
