Page 88 of Playing with Fire

My mother had been worse, in some ways. While Dad had been direct in his disappointment, she'd retreated into prayer and silence, as if speaking to me might somehow contaminate her. "We'll pray for you," was all she'd said as I packed my things. "God can heal this if you let Him."

Even now, years later, the memory stung. Their love had been conditional all along, contingent upon me fitting into the narrow mold they'd constructed. And I had tried. Dios mío, how I had tried. Years of church youth groups and confession. Attempted dates with girls from the parish. I even joined the Army. But it had never been enough. I had never been enough.

Xavier's breathing shifted momentarily before settling back into its steady rhythm. I envied him his certainty, his unshakable sense of self. Xavier never apologized for who he was, never tried to contort himself into shapes that might please others. Even with Algerone, he'd held firm to his own boundaries, his own identity. He'd taken the man's resources, his protection, but had never surrendered his autonomy.

Maybe that's why Algerone had saved him. He’d recognized and respected that steel core that refused to bend.

My phone sat on the nightstand, its dark screen reflecting nothing. How many times had I picked it up over the years, my mother's number still memorized, my thumb hovering over the keys? How many times had I composed messages I never sent, apologies for things that weren't my fault?

I sat up carefully, sliding out from under Xavier's arm. The loss of his warmth made me shiver as I padded barefoot to the window, easing the curtain aside to look out at the predawn darkness. The Sentinel's grounds spread below, perfectly manicured and meticulously patrolled. Even now, I could see security personnel making their rounds, flashlights swinging in precise arcs as they checked the perimeter. All that protection, and still Phoenix had breached our defenses. Still, Algerone had fallen.

The thought of Algerone brought me back to Xavier. To the question of fathers. To the complexity of blood ties versus chosen bonds. Algerone had given his life to save Xavier, had sacrificed himself without hesitation. A final, incontrovertible proof of... what? Love? Obligation? Strategic calculation? Some complex mixture of all three?

Meanwhile, my own father, who had held me as an infant, who had taught me to ride a bike and throw a baseball, who had bandaged scraped knees and checked for monsters under the bed, had chosen dogma over his only child. Had let me walk away rather than accept who I was.

Which was the greater betrayal?

I moved to the desk and opened my laptop, the screen's glow painting the room in ghostly blue. My fingers hovered over the keys, uncertain. Then, before I could overthink it, I navigated to Facebook. I hadn't logged in for years, had abandoned social media along with everything else when I'd left home. But the platform remembered me, cheerfully welcoming me back like a long-lost friend.

My profile picture was still the same, a filtered shot from my last year of college, smiling nervously at the camera, already hiding who I truly was. Notifications piled up, hundreds of them accumulated over the years of absence. I ignored them all, my attention fixed on the search bar.

I typed "Maria Astrada" and hit enter.

My mother's profile appeared immediately, her familiar face smiling back at me from her profile picture. She looked older than I remembered, new lines etched around her eyes and mouth, her once dark hair now streaked with silver. The photo showed her in the garden I'd grown up with, surrounded by plants.

My chest tightened as I scrolled through her recent posts. Mostly shares from the church group, inspirational quotes overlaid on sunset backgrounds, announcements for parish events. Her life continuing in exactly the same patterns, only without me in it.

And then I saw it. A post from last month, a shared memory from years earlier. The photo showed me at my high school graduation in my cap and gown. My father stood beside me, one arm around my shoulders, his face split in a wide grin of paternal pride. Mom had captioned it simply: "Missing you today and always. Happy birthday, mijo."

The air left my lungs in a rush. They remembered my birthday. After everything, after three years of silence, they still marked the day. Still acknowledged my existence, even if only in the digital shadow world of social media where I wouldn't see it. Unless, of course, some part of her had hoped I would. She had left it public as a message in a bottle, cast into the digital ocean with the faint hope that someday, somehow, I might find it.

The tears came without warning, hot and sudden, blurring the screen before me. I wiped them away roughly, angry at myself for still caring, for still hoping after all this time. But the evidence was undeniable. They hadn't forgotten me. Hadn't fully excised me from their lives. There was still... something. A thread, however tenuous, connecting us across the years and miles of silence.

"Leo?" Xavier's voice, rough with sleep but alert with concern. I hadn't heard him get up, hadn't sensed him moving across the room to stand behind me. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and solid. "What's wrong?"

I gestured helplessly at the screen, unable to find words. Xavier leaned closer, reading the post. His fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder as he absorbed the implications.

"Your mom," he said simply.

"They remembered my birthday," I managed. "After everything. After three years, they still..." I couldn't finish, the words caught in my throat.

Xavier was quiet for a moment, studying the screen with that intense focus he brought to everything. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "What are you going to do about it?"

The question hung in the air between us, weighty with possibility. What was I going to do? After three years of silence, of building a new life, of finding a new family with Xavier and the Laskins, what did I want from these people who had rejected me at my most vulnerable?

"I don't know," I admitted. "Part of me wants to reach out. To see if maybe... maybe things could be different now. But another part..."

Xavier's hand moved from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair in that possessive gesture I'd come to find so comforting. "You're afraid they haven't changed. That they'll hurt you again."

"Yeah." I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from the contact. "And honestly? I'm afraid of hurting you. You and your family have been more of a home to me than they ever were. I don't want you to think I'm... I don't know, being disloyal or something."

Xavier made a dismissive sound, his fingers tightening slightly in my hair. "That's bullshit, Leo. Your relationship with your blood relatives has nothing to do with us. With what we are to each other."

His certainty steadied me, as it always did. Xavier never wavered, never equivocated. His absolutes could be terrifying in their intensity, but they were also a refuge from my own endless questioning.

"I just keep thinking about Algerone," I confessed. "About what happened tonight. About fathers and sons and what family really means."

Xavier’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of my scalp. "Algerone chose to die for me. Your parents chose their religion over you. Sometimes the choices people make tell us everything we need to know about who they really are."

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