Page 22 of October
He was quiet a moment, shading in a shadow beneath a rocky cliff.
"You're good at pretending things are fine," he said finally.
That hit harder than anything else tonight. I didn't speak. Just looked at him.My boy.He kept drawing, a little more focused now. Still not looking at me. He finally looked up. His eyes were soft and serious.
"You don't have to be strong every second. I'm not a little kid anymore, Mom. You can be real with me."
I felt the air leave my lungs. I reached over, brushing the curls from his forehead. He ducked his head, a little shy, and smiled.
"I know you're not" I whispered.
"Good," he said, returning to his sketch.
I kissed the top of his head and sat there for a while longer, watching him draw. Letting his words settle in me like balm on a wound I hadn't realized was still bleeding.
Eventually, I stood and told him to get some rest. He gave me a little salute with his pencil and grinned.
"Night, Mom."
"Goodnight, baby."
Before I turned to leave, his voice, soft and uncertain, reached me:
"Do you need a hug, Mom?"
My breath caught. That was my line. My armor cracked.
"Yeah, baby," I whispered.
He rose, feet padding across the floor, and wrapped his arms around me, tight, brief, and full of grace. Then, without a word, he returned to his bed, as if nothing had happened.
He'll never know what that hug did. How it stitched the torn edges of my heart. How it reminded me that even in the depthsof despair, love endures. In that simple embrace, my child gave me the strength to face another day. I walked back to my room with his voice still echoing in my heart. I didn't even take off my shoes. I just sat on the edge of the bed. And then, as if the universe couldn't let me rest, I heard the sound of keys in the door downstairs
Thomas burst in, breathless, calling my name like it still belonged to him. I didn't answer. He found me in the room, chest heaving, eyes pleading.
"October—please, just let me explain—I have a lot to say..."
I turned to him, my voice low and steady.
"If you don't leave this house right now," I said, "I will."
He froze, as if struck.
"Please, I—"
"NOW!"
He stood there a moment longer, stunned, and then turned and left. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality.
The morning unfolded in a blur. I moved on autopilot—preparing breakfast, packing lunches, ensuring the kids were ready for school. Their laughter and chatter were a comforting backdrop, momentarily distracting me from the turmoil within. Later, I met August at the gym. The rhythmic cadence of the treadmill provided a temporary escape, allowing me to process the events of the previous night.
Upon returning home, the house was quiet. Then, my phone buzzed. Jeanine's name flashed on the screen.
"October," she said, her voice steady, "I'd like to see you."
We met at my house. She stepped inside slowly, carefully, as if the weight of what she was carrying might crack the floorboards. Her posture was impeccable—spine straight, shoulders drawn back—but her eyes gave her away. They were red-rimmed, stormy, blinking too much.
She didn't speak at first. Just looked around my living room as though seeing it for the first time. Finally, she gestured for me to sit. She settled across from me on the edge of the armchair, knees together, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she needed to hold herself in.
