Page 7 of The Grief We Hold

Instead, she offered to give Fen some pasta and meatballs while I showed her what I could do. She even hid our cases in a store cupboard for me.

And while I was working, the Dobsons came in for lunch. Margie told them I was in need of a place to stay.

Thank God the Dobsons took one look at me and agreed five hundred bucks would cover a month’s stay.

We’re secure for twenty-five more days, at least.

“Can we color a castle over dinner?” Fen asks, looking longingly at the coloring book and crayons on the floor by the recliner.

“Let’s eat first. Then you can jump in the tub while I clean up, and we can color together before bed.”

“Okay. Can I get some milk?”

I rub my hand over his hair, naturally dark like mine, although he’s got his father’s darker complexion. His eyes are so dark, they remind me of obsidian. And his skin holds that healthy all year-round tan. “Can I get some milk,please?”

“Sorry, Mom. Can I get some milk, please?” He emphasizes the last word to make a point.

I can’t help but grin at the funny, secure boy who is starting to emerge even after only a few days.

Margie gave me some leftovers from the diner. She called themleftovers, but there was still four hours left before it closed. I’m grateful to Margie for thinking of us. As I serve up the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and vegetables, I think of the biker who arrived in the diner this afternoon.

Looks-wise, I’ve never seen anyone quite like him. His long hair fell in spirals of curls the palest gold. And his icy-blue eyes bordered on colorless, although perhaps I’m just romanticizing now.

But his demeanor?

I know too many men like him. Wearing power like a second skin. Intimidating without trying. I should avoid him, but Margie said he was important to her. She didn’t explain why, but then he called herMa.

So, I put on my game face. Smiled. And hoped he’d just think I was a nice enough human being to not get mad at.

“Eli is mean,” Fen says as he walks carefully from the fridge with a glass of milk.

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“Mrs. Kelly told us a story about some crayons and then asked us to draw something from the story. And I wanted to do purple, but Eli went to every table and took all the purple crayons so I couldn’t.”

My heart aches for my little boy. “You’re right, that is a mean thing for Eli to do. I’m sorry he hurt your feelings.”

“I wanted to punch him.” His angry face is so like his father’s that I feel like I might need therapy. “But I was too scared.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for not hitting him. Violence is not the answer.”

He looks at me with eyes that have already seen too much. He’s confused, because explosive acts were always the answer with his father. Fen has seen enough smashed glasses and punched walls to last a lifetime.

I place the spatula I was using to serve the food down and crouch in front of him. “You don’t need to hit him or yell at him. Ask for the crayons. And if he doesn’t give them back to you, you can ask Mrs. Kelly to get one for you.”

“Alyssa, who sits at the front table, walked right up to him and took them straight out of Eli’s hand.”

I’m grateful for little girls like Alyssa who are brave enough to stand up for my gentle and curious boy. I wish I’d been a little more like her. But my spine started to grow the moment we boarded that first bus.

“Well, I’m glad you got to color in purple. Now, take a seat and?—”

A loud hammering at the door makes both of us jump and look in the direction of the staircase that leads down to the entrance.

There’s a tightening in my chest, but for Fen’s sake, I smile. “Let me just find out who that is.”

I glance down from the kitchen window, but whoever it is must be tucked into the doorway out of the rain. I need one of those cameras that show who’s knocking.

The stairs creak painfully as I descend them, and I cling to the railing.

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