Page 137 of Back to Willow

“Yes,” his answer is delayed and hesitant.

“Is Mummy having a hard time breathing?”

“Y-yes,” he stammers in a shaky voice.

Bloody hell. She must be having a panic attack again.

“Don’t cry, buddy,” I tell him. “Let’s try and help her, yeah? Can you do as I say?”

“She won’t speak,” he warns me. “She never does when this happens.”

So, this happens often. Of course, she has trauma. Panic attacks are common. Why the fuck didn’t I make the connection?

Flashbacks from his birthday and her teacher helping her out flood my mind. She was a mess and couldn’t even speak; she’s probably the same now.

“Can you unlock the door?” I try.

“She’s holding the key too hard,” he mumbles, seemingly struggling with something.

“Got it,” he says.

His footsteps are faint and not even a full minute later, he opens the door for me. Slipping inside, I lock it again—just in case someone tries to snoop in. This time around, I keep some distance as I crouch in front of her.

“Baby,” I call her. “You need to take slow and deep breaths.”

All the while, he snuggles against her side, and she holds him back just as tight.

Oh, good. She lets him touch her.

“Buddy?” The clever boy I hope is my son looks at me through shiny eyes. He is so worried it hurts. “Touch Mummy’s cheeks and tell her to look at you.” He does and surprisingly, she locks eyes with him.

My heart soars at the small victory. Their bond is so strong, and I can’t even feel jealous. I am just proud. She is giving him the kind of love I never got, even through the hard times she has had to face.

“Tell her to breathe with you,” I instruct.

He does as I say, but she fails to do it, her breath still hitching as fat tears stroll down her face. He looks at me, hopeless and in want of direction.

“Ask her to look at you again and name the colours she sees.” When he hesitates, I insist, “Go on, buddy.”

“Blu–” She hiccups, and he coos her to go on. “B-brown.” Another hiccup and one less sob.Another win. “White.” A deep breath in and a long exhale. Yes.

“One more, Mummy,” he encourages her.

“Grey,” she mumbles, looking at Dylan’s small-sized sweatpants. “T-thanks.”

The hoarseness in her voice sounds like she’s been shouting and singing at a concert non-stop. Panic attacks exert people’s bodies in a way many don’t realise. And watching the only woman I have ever loved having one first-hand for the second time in two months awakes a part of me I never knew existed.

It’s primal—monstrous, even. It creates a rage inside like never before. All I want is to go back to Lisbon, the city we used to live in, and find the piece of shit who hurt her this bad. Or fucking travel in time, back to that night, so I can right all of my wrongs. To get home earlier—fuck, not even leave in the first place. Just so I could be there and fucking walk her home!

I want to keep her under my arm and never let go again, making sure she is one hundred percent safe.

“Baby,” I call, but she looks away from me. Ouch. “What’s wrong?”

When I try to touch her, she still flinches, and fuck, it hurts. It hurts that I’m not a safe haven for her like Dylan is.

“Lo?”

“I never wanted this to happen,” she cries, sobbing again. “I swear!”

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