Chapter 5 - A Cup of Cold Reality
The water shut off in the kitchen.
Lauren immediately dragged the sleeve of her cardigan across her face, wiping away the tears with an efficiency that told me she had mastered the art of crying without letting her child see.
"Mom?" Leo’s head poked around the doorframe. "I used the peppermint soap."
"Good boy," Lauren said, her voice instantly shifting to that gentle, bright maternal tone that made my chest ache. "Why don't you head upstairs and pick out the book you want to read before bed? Put your flannel pajamas on."
"Is the man leaving?" Leo asked. He was looking at my overnight bag sitting by the front door.
I looked down at the floor, unable to bear the weight of his gaze.
"We're just talking, sweetie," Lauren said. "Go on upstairs. I'll be up in ten minutes to tuck you in."
Leo lingered for a second, then his small feet thumped up the carpeted stairs. A door clicked shut above us.
The silence that returned was heavier than the blizzard outside. The wind rattled the old windowpanes, reminding me that a storm warning had been issued for the entire county.
Lauren let out a long, ragged exhale. "Sit down, Liam. If you're going to stand there looking like you're about to pass out, sit down at the table."
I walked into the kitchen like a condemned man walking to the gallows. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon, roast chicken, and the distinct, slightly dusty scent of old radiator heat. I pulled out one of the oak chairs—the same chairs we had bought off Craigslist when we were twenty-three and thought we could conquer the world with thirty dollars and a toolbox.
Lauren poured two mugs of black coffee from a glass pot on the counter. She set one in front of me, but she didn't sit. She leaned against the counter, her hands wrapped around her own cup, staring at me.
"Why are you here, Liam? Really. Don't give me poetry. Don't give me regret. Why tonight?"
I stared into the dark liquid. "Because seven years is a long time to carry a ghost. I spent seven years running from the memory of how I failed you. Every time I framed a house, every time I hammered a nail, I heard your voice telling me that I gave up too easily. I came here tonight to hand you an envelope with seventy thousand dollars in back support—money I saved by working eighty hours a week—and to tell you that I was sorry. I thought... I thought you had moved on. I thought you had a husband. I thought I would leave the check in your mailbox and drive away."
May you like
My voice broke completely.
"I didn't know there was a boy."
