Page 4 of Finding the Pieces

Of course, Luca fell asleep in his car seat immediately, which means he’ll be up for the next three hours. Bedtime is screwed, but I’m too tired to fight to keep him awake for the drive home.

“Your mom brought up Luca’s birthday again tonight,” Dom says, interrupting my near-constant thoughts of sleep schedules, wake windows, and desperate questions likewill I ever sleep again?

“Yeah, she asked me about it too.”

An uncomfortably long silence hangs in the air between us. My heart pounds in my chest, and my palms turn slick with sweat. I know he’s going to ask. Part of me wants to stall him, but the other part just wants him to spit it out.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I’m thinking…I don’t want to think about it,” I say quietly.

“El, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what’s going on.” Dom takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly.

“I just…” I pull my hand away from him, running it through my hair. I lean against the passenger door and close my eyes, fighting to keep my voice level and hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I want to focus on celebrating Luca, but every time I think about his birthday…” I whisper, letting the thought drift away.

“I thought the flashbacks were getting better. Practically gone,” he says without judgment. Just a statement. A wish.

“They are. Or at least theywere.”

Things were getting better. I hadn’t had any flashbacks to Luca’s birth in at least a month, but a few days ago, they started again. My gut is telling me it’s because Luca’s birthday is coming up at the end of the month.

Now, I keep finding myself caught between a state of choking panic or hollow numbness; I don’t know what’s worse.

I know whatlooksworse. The panic. The tears. The near hysteria. But the numbness achesinside, like subfloors rotting away beneath new flooring. It looks pretty, but in reality, the smallest amount of pressure in the wrong spot would tear a hole straight through to the decrepit basement.

I wonder sometimes what people see when they look at me. Look at that mom pushing her baby in a stroller around the block. Look at that mom taking her son to the playground. Look at that mom at the grocery store with her child.

What do they think of me? Do they know I’m falling apart piece by piece, wishing that someday I’ll feel like a good mom?

No matter what other people see on the outside, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I spend every minute anticipating every single thing that could possibly go wrong. The truly horrific hypotheticals stay stuck on a loop in my brain all damn day and it’s all I can do to keep a smile on my face and kiss my sweet boy’s forehead and tell him how much I love him while shoving those thoughts down deep in my wrecked mind.

“What do you need, Ellie? Please, I just want to help.”

God, if he doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to break down and I don’t know how long it’ll take to pull myself back together.

I pull at the frayed edges of my sanity and tug them into place, shutting everything down. I’d rather feel nothing than lose it right now in this car with Dom’s gentle voice whittling away my limited control.

I ignore his question and refocus the conversation on the party we need to host. “What if we do something simple? Just invite family and close friends to our place. I don’t know, maybe lunch and cake?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Want me to work out the food and the invites?” he offers.

I hate talking about this like we both don’t know that Dom’s walking on eggshells around me. Unsure if he should push me to talk about it or let me bury it and get through the decisions we need to get through.

Because what kind of mom doesn’t get excited to plan their child’s first birthday party?

Shame cuts sharply into my lungs, stealing my breath, and I force a deep inhale, trying to will it away.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, Dom.”

When I cut a glance in his direction, his gaze is focused on the road ahead. That little wrinkle in his forehead pulled tight in…frustration? I used to poke at that wrinkle when we’d tease each other or when we’d bicker over small, stupid shit. It’d always make him laugh, and he’d tease me right back, poking my solo dimple on my left cheek. It made me laugh too.

Something close to grief burns in my stomach.

Those people we werebefore. They feel like strangers.

I don’t think we’ll ever find them again.

I don’t think they exist anymore.

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