Page 6 of Rather: The Therapist

Again, and, again, as his foot pounced on the ground as the anguish on his face stretched his features a little more each time. Until, eventually, tears blurred it all.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

He wept.

It was all he knew. All he’d ever known. And, for the first year of her absence, it was all he ever signed. All day. Every day, until the space between his thumb and index finger grew raw. His chin still had a lighter tone where he placed his thumb religiously for thirteen months straight. It had only been a year since stemming had turned into a more settling, more controllable rock he could pull himself out of when his body and mind aligned.

“So— son,” I coughed out, masking the cracking of my voice. I hardly recognized it as the word surfaced.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

Mom.

I pulled him into my arms, because there wasn’t anything I could say or do to heal his broken heart. At three, he wasn’t privy to the despicable traits his mother harbored. All he knew was at one point she loved him unconditionally and then she was gone.

While most children didn’t remember much until the age of five, they never forgot people they loved and people who loved them well. Until his diagnosis, his mother had loved him well. He was having trouble forgetting that shit and the fact she wasn’t willing to anymore.

“Hey. Hey. Hey. Princeton. You’re okay,” I promised, unable to maintain my composure.

When my son hurt, so did I.

“We’re okay. We’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. Son, there’s no need to cry. Not everyone deserves you. Not everyone deserves us. You have me. And– and I’ll never– I’ll never leave you. I will be by your side until my last breath. You’ll always have me. You hear me?”

I separated our chests, needing to see those brown eyes as I spoke life into his lifeless heart.

“Princeton, your father will never leave you. Ever. You mean the world to me, son. Yo– you’re better than my wildest dreams. You’re so smart. So sharp. So talented. So gifted. You– you’re okay, son. You’re loved.

“Wholly. Widely. Largely. Unconditionally. Not just by me but by all your uncles. Your grandfather. Your grandmother. Both of them. Mommy isn’t coming back, son. It’s just you– you and me. You hear? And, we’re going to be alright. Okay?”

Slowly, he nodded up and down. This time when he lifted his hand, it wasn’t to his chin. It was to my face to wipe the tears I’d kept at bay for two years.

“Appreciate that, buddy,” I scoffed, pissed I’d even allowed her to fuck up our night. “Appreciate that.”

Tucked away in bed, I began a large circle on Princeton’s back. It was the calming mechanism I’d learned nearly three years ago and it still soothed him when his emotions were larger than he could bear. Slowly, he drifted, sniffles continuing to riddle his little body.

With the glass of brown liquor in my hand, I slouched in the large chair that accommodated my extensive limbs. Inward, my nostrils shrunk. And, then, outward, they expanded as I stared out into the dark of the night. Aside from the city lights, glowing blue water in the pool of my backyard, and the twinkle of the stars, nothing else was visible.

Fucking bitch.

My chest caved as the glass went flying. On the floor, it landed, clashing against the marble. Respect and women were hand-in-hand. My tongue was hardly sharp when in the presence of, speaking to, or speaking about such beautiful creatures. But, there was one who’d left a bitter taste in my mouth I hadn’t been able to shake in two years.

“Urgh.”

Because of her, I hadn’t touched, noticed, or entertained a woman since she walked out of our son’s life. Not because I didn’t want to or because I didn’t crave the very essence, the very scent of a woman, but because my focus hadn’t departed from obtaining full custody of my son. Now that his womb donor had signed over her rights, I could rest.

Or at least, I imagined I’d be able to on this day. I imagined it would be one of the happiest of my life, but instead, I was nursing the same wounds my son had, praying my love for him was enough to set his little soul on fire.

“Mr. Valentine.”

---