Chapter 263
Chapter 255: Not Instead Of
SEDONA
Nick came in with his usual fast walk. He was a step ahead of Mrs. Peterson. He hugged me as usual. He hugged me with full-body, unguarded, and no trace of whatever I’d heard in his voice on the phone.
I let the first twenty minutes be ordinary. Let it be questions about school, about the drawing he’d brought to show me. And story about a substitute teacher who’d apparently pronounced everyone’s names wrong in a way the whole class had found hilarious. I let him have the warmth of it before I touched the thing underneath.
Then, gently, when there was a natural pause: “I heard you met Drew. At the family centre, before I came
in p>
His face changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a small closing, his shoulders coming in slightly. Nick’s eyes dropped to the table between us. His shoulders tensed. His disposition showed he had something he was uncomfortable with. And he was preparing to talk about it.
“Yeah, he had a notebook p>
“He did. He’s very serious about his notebook. Did you like him?” I kept my voice light. I was not in a hurry. I gave him room to decide how much he wanted to say,
He paused. He stared me straight in the eyes. He retorted, “I don’t know”
I breathed calmly and said. “You don’t have to know yet p>
He was quiet for a moment, turning something over. I waited.
“He lives at the house,” Nick said finally. Flat. Careful. “The one with the garden. The one with my grandparents p>
“He stays sometimes,” I said. “With his dad. Not all the time p>
“But he gets to,” Nick said. The flatness cracked, just slightly, something rawer underneath it pushing through. “He gets to just be there. Whenever. And I only get two hours p>
There it was. I didn’t rush to fix it. I felt the urge. The immediate and overwhelming need to reassure him fast. Before it hardened into something harder to undo. But I had learned the hard way, across a year of my own healing, that rushing past a hard feeling didn’t make it disappear. It just taught you to hide it better.
“Tell me what that feels like. The two hours, compared to him just being there p>
Nick looked at the table. His jaw did something small, the specific tightness of a six-year-old trying very hard not to cry in front of someone he didn’t want to worry.
“Like he’s your real kid now,” he said. Quiet. “Because he’s close. And I’m not close. I’m just, I’m the one who has to leave p>
Not Insteader.
Hfelt that land exactly where I expected it to, and exactly as hard as I expected it to.
“Nick, look at me for a second p>
Claim
He looked up. His eyes were wet. I noticed the careful effort of holding tears back, visible in every part of his face.
“Drew is not my son. He’s Dante’s son. And I love him like other kids. He is a good boy, and I’m glad he’s part of my life. You are my son and a very good boy. He is not the same as you are to me. It’s not even close to the same p>
“But he gets to be there every day p>
“He does, sometimes,” I said. “Because his dad and I are together, and his dad lives near me right now. That’s about logistics, bug. About where people happen to be. That has nothing to do with how much I love either of you p>
He was quiet and listening. I could see he wasn’t convinced yet. I never expected he would be easy to convince, otherwise, of what was growing in his young mind for over a week. I smiled and looked bright.
“Let me tell you something that you might find hard to believe right now p>
He nodded, small.
“Love doesn’t work like a pie,” I said. “Where if someone else gets a piece, there’s less left over for you.
I used to think there was only so much to go around when I was your age. But it doesn’t work that way, and if I wasn’t careful, someone else would get the piece that was supposed to be mine. Loving Drew doesn’t take anything away from how much I love you. Loving your grandparents doesn’t either. It’s not the same bucket, Nick. You don’t run out of love by giving some of it to someone else,” I said, holding his eyes.
“That’s what grown-ups say, not rude, just honest, the specific scepticism of a child who had heard reassurances before and learned that not all of them turned out to be true.
“I know it sounds like that. I can’t prove it to you with words alone.
I know that. But I can tell you the truest thing I know, which is this: you are mine in a way nothing changes. Not distance. Not a custody schedule. Not two hours instead of every day. You were the first thing I loved that completely, and that doesn’t have an expiration date, and it doesn’t have a competitor. Drew has his own mum-shaped space that I’m not in. You have a space that’s only yours. Nobody else fits into it. Not Drew. Not anyone p>
He was quiet for a long moment.
“The constellation,” he said finally. “Is that still just ours p>
“Only ours,” I said. “I haven’t shown anyone else the drawing. I haven’t told anyone. It belongs to you and me, and it always will p>
He nodded slowly. Something in his shoulders came down. Just slightly. Not fully, not the complete unclenching I would have wanted to see. But a small loosening. The first real movement since I’d brought
it up.
“I still feel weird about it. Honest in that careful way, he managed honesty, as each word cost him
Not insteader-
something to hand over. Even though you said all that p>
“That’s okay. Feelings take longer than explanations sometimes. I just need you to know the truth of it, even on the days when the feeling doesn’t believe it yet p>
He nodded again. Looked at his hands.
“Can I ask you something p>
Claim
“Anything.” If I asked you to choose between Drew and me, would you choose me?” he asked very quietly, not looking up.
I felt that question land somewhere deep. It came with the weight of a six-year-old needing to hear something stated plainly, even though he already, somewhere, knew the answer.
“There’s no version of this where I’d ever have to choose,” I said. “But if you need to hear it anyway,yes, always you and every single time. In every version of this that could ever exist, it’s you p>
He didn’t say anything. But he leaned into me. The way he had the first time he’d seen me in person after months of talking on the phone. I held him for about a minute. But from the look of things, he was still unconvinced by the time the visit ended.
I could see it in him, the fear hadn’t dissolved completely, hadn’t been fully argued away by one careful conversation in a beige room with bad carpet. I hadn’t expected it to.
But when Mrs. Peterson came to collect him, he hugged me a little longer than usual, and right before he let go, he said, very quietly, just for me:
“Okay, not that I believe you completely, and not that I’m not scared anymore. I’m just okay.
Let’s let it alone. That was enough for today.
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Florence
A passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.