Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Did my dad die?” he asked me. Death itself is a heady conversation, and one we hadn’t had yet, so I wasn’t even sure he knew what death meant. We ended up having a brief conversation about death and how not every family has a daddy, but I knew the conversation was going to come up again when he was a little older and he knew a little more. There would come a day when he would know how a baby is made and realize he didn’t come from immaculate conception.
Matteo’s eyes droop within the first twenty minutes of the movie. By the half-way mark, he’s snoring. He doesn’t take a nap every day anymore. He’s more likely to go without than he is to take one, so I figure the day must have worn on him. He is far too aware for a small child. Too in tune with my emotions. I realize my anxiety and worry exhaust him as much as it would if it were his own.
It’s part of the reason I started therapy. I don’t need to pass that trait onto him.
“Were you ever planning on telling me I have a child?” Enzo asks.
He’s technically following my wishes and only talking about this when Matteo is asleep. I guess I should be grateful for that, but I want to push the conversation out further. Hopefully, push it so far out I can escape before I ever need to have it.
“No,” I answer truthfully. Despite my unease at this conversation, I’d feel worse lying about it.
Enzo clicks his tongue in disproval. I can feel his gaze burning into me, but I refuse to look away from the TV. It’s a movie I’ve seen a thousand times, a cartoon that is one of Matteo’s favorites. Normally, I would do anything to get a reprieve from the damn movie. I can recite it line for line and it haunts me in my sleep. It’s torture, and it’s still preferable to the conversation I’m having with Enzo.
“Well, I guess this threw a wrench in your plans to deny me a relationship with my son.”
The sweet, honeyed tone he has been using with Matteo is gone. When he speaks like this, deep and threatening, I can see the danger in him. Good, I think to myself. I need the reminder the persona he shows our son is just an act.
“I plan to keep my son safe. Give him a chance at whatever life he chooses instead of trying him down to some genetic destiny,” I tell him.
“Right. Did he choose to grow up without a father? Without half his family?”
I don’t answer him. He can accuse me all he wants, but I made the choice I needed to for my son. I won't regret that.
There have been times I question it. Whenever we had gone to the park and I saw a little boy playing ball with his dad. Or when we went to his friend’s birthday party and her aunts and uncles had surrounded her. Sometimes I cried, wishing for help. I felt so alone and clung to the small baby in my arms. There was no one but the two of us. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but we didn’t have that. So I had to be the village instead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Enzo rubbing at his head like I’m giving him a headache. I roll my eyes. If he thinks this is infuriating, then maybe he should have someone call him and lie to him, sending him into a panic that his father has been put into the hospital.
“It doesn’t matter now. The both of you are here so we can marry and…”
“Excuse you?” My head whips to him, my eyes bugging straight out of their socket. The words coming out of his mouth are as unbelievable as the situation I’ve found myself in.
“I would appreciate if you would please let me finish my sentences.”
“And I’d appreciate if you would please not make comments about us getting married.” My jerky movements startle Matteo. Not enough to wake him, but enough that he readjusts his position in his sleep. I force myself to relax and run my fingers through his hair. It’s for the best he stays asleep right now.
“I’m not making comments. I’m making plans.”
He says it with such nonchalance that I struggle to catch up. Instead, I openly gape at him.
“I’m not…”
“You are,” he tells me breezily. My brows pull together in irritation, and I open my mouth to speak again, but he beat me to it. “Now you can see how infuriating it is to be cut off when you’re trying to say something.”
Despite the nature of our conversation, the edges of my lips tip up into an amused smile. Dammit. His charm is infuriating. It’s another trait of his he passed along to Matteo. Or maybe I’m just a pushover. The kid knows how to get out of trouble using sweet words and those sparing gestures of affection. It’s not just me. He charms his teachers. The grocery store clerks always give him extra samples. Even our grumpy neighbor comes out to play with him when I’m too busy.