Page 111 of Shattered Promise

I haven’t checked my phone. I haven’t looked at the house or the windows or anything but the blackened, oily guts of this engine bay. Every time I pause, the memory of my father’s voice—barely remembered, but sharp as glass—cuts through the silence, and I want to punch something just to hear it break.

I toss the wrench onto the bench, the clang too loud in the close air. I’m done for the day. Not because I finished anything—just because I can’t stand the taste of my own thoughts anymore.

The sky outside is cloudy, despite the warm temperature. My boots crunch over the gravel. The house windows are lit up, golden and warm against the gray. The closer I get, the more I feel the tension in my shoulders, like I’m bracing for something. Like maybe my father is waiting inside, ready to finish whatever he started when he left me on that curb.

But when I open the door, the first thing I see is my son. He’s a sticky, smiling mess in his high chair, applesauce slicked up to both eyebrows. Abby’s sitting next to him, hair falling loose around her face.

She’s got his spoon loaded with more applesauce than any sane person would attempt to land in that kid’s mouth.

I pause in the entryway, the sight of them hitting me like a punch in the chest. Not in a bad way. In the way that makes you feel so much at once you’re not sure if you want to laugh or fall to your knees. I lean against the frame for a second, letting the weird ache behind my eyes recede.

Theo wiggles, blinking up at her, and babbles, “Ma-ma. Ma-ma.”

Abby laughs and cheers. “Yay! Great job, buddy!”

And suddenly that ache inside of me detonates into something far darker.

Theo’s face is pure sunshine, cheeks smeared and grinning, and he does it again. “Ma-ma-ma.” Louder this time, like he’s fueled by Abby’s praise.

The strings inside me pull tight, bowing from the effort. Until they just snap.

“What are you doing with my son?”

Abby’s head snaps up, eyes wide, lips parted. “God, Mase, you scared me,” she says, pressing her free hand to her chest. Her grin spreads across her face. “Did you hear him?”

“You’re not his mother,” I snap, the room tilting a little.

She rears back, her mouth closing and her brows dipping low. “What?”

My chest heaves and my eyes feel a little wild as I look at her. I stalk across the kitchen, standing next to Theo and looking down at her.

“I said you’re not his mother. So don’t teach him to call you Mama. Why would you, of all people, teach him that?” It comes out sharper than I mean. Harsh and loud, but I can’t take it back now.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Even Theo freezes, his head turning toward me with wide, confused eyes. Abby doesn't flinch, not exactly, but her body stills like she’s bracing for impact.

She blinks once, twice, and then the color drains from her cheeks. It’s like watching a window slam shut from the inside. The spoon hangs in the air between us, trembling slightly.

“I know I’m not his mother.” Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady. Steady in that way that makes it feel like I’m the one unraveling. “You don’t have to keep reminding me, Mason.”

“Don’t I?” I arch a brow, dragging my gaze to my son and back to her.

She stands, slow and deliberate, applesauce dripping to the floor, and wipes her hand on a dish towel. She looks—fuck, shelooks so small in my kitchen, all the light gone out of her eyes. And I put it there. I did that.

But I can’t bring myself to take it back. Not when she’s blurring the lines too quickly. I know what it’s like to have a parent leave, and I won’t put my son through the same thing.

“I’m going to go,” she murmurs. She sets the spoon down carefully, standing up and brushing a kiss on the top of Theo’s head. “I’ll see you later, buddy.”

She pauses in front of me, pressing a small board book into my chest. I look down automatically.

“This is a sign language book for babies,” she says, voice like cracked glass. “We’re working on the sign for ‘more.’ That’s what he was saying.”

Then she turns and walks away, leaving my house. Leaving me without looking back.

Just like I always knew she would.

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