Page 76 of October
He let out this sharp, bitter laugh, wiping his sleeve across his face like he was angry at his own tears. "Yeah, right. Sounds fake. Maybe I should just not care next time. Or—or maybe I should just love hermore. Like, too much. So she doesn't forget I'm there."
My heart twisted at that, the way only a mother's heart can twist when her kid says something so innocent but already carrying the weight of future mistakes. "No, baby," I said, shaking my head. "No. Loving someone harder won't stop them from hurting you if that's who they are. You don't have toproveyou're worthy of love. That's not how it works."
He frowned, defensive, the way kids get when they're embarrassed but want to sound like they know better. "But if I love her more, then maybe... maybe she'll see me, I'm not trying to be stupid or like, whatever. I just—if I'm better, she won't reject me, right?"
God, how early they learn that. How early they learn to think it's about beingenough. I wanted to scoop him up like I used to when he was five and tell him it wasn't true. But he was fourteen now, and he needed more than just my arms, he needed truth.
"Jimmy," I said softly, steady. "The right person won'tneedconvincing. You don't have to out-love anyone else. You don't have to overperform, or twist yourself into knots to get picked. The right one will see you,as you are, and they'll want to learn you. They'll want to love you in the way you need. Not because you begged them to, but because theywantto. They'll learn your love language, and they'll meet you there."
He stayed silent, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, lips pressed together. For a second I thought he might be about tocry again—but then he spoke, soft but sharp, like an accidental wound: "Have you learnt Dad's or has he learnt yours?"
The words hit harder than I expected. I actually forgot how to breathe for a second. That one question peeled everything back, memories I hadn't invited rushing in, uninvited but relentless.
That comment Thomas made about the colors of my eyes, said like a plain fact, not a compliment, just truth. Like gravity, like weather, like something so obvious it didn't need to be dressed up. And then the plaque under our tree. Learning French because I offhandedly told him I loved how it sounded soft in the mouth. Putting lemon in anything—cakes, tea, salads, even though I knew he didn't like it. He did it anyway, and now these lists. Page after page of proof that he'd been building tiny worlds of comfort around me without making a sound about it.
Had he been loving me quietly all along, in reserve, like a secret language I never learned to translate? It felt like missing a whole conversation that had been happening right in front of me. Like being handed a key to a house I didn't know I'd been living in.
Then the confusion came creeping in, hot and sharp. I've always been loud with love, bright colors, grand gestures, too much, too soon. The kind of love that arrives like a thunderstorm, unannounced and impossible to ignore. I've never been good at holding back, always desperate to make sure no one ever doubted how I felt. I shouted my love like fireworks at midnight, dazzling, fleeting, burning hot and fast across the sky. I left trails of affection behind me like confetti: notes in lunchboxes, spontaneous gifts, words that spilled out too early, too often. Maybe he was the opposite. Maybe he loved in the quiet ways. Steady. Unshowy. Hidden in the folds of the ordinary.
But I never told him I needed loud. Not really. I'd been upset, yes. I'd withdrawn, sulked, snapped over stupid things. But I never sat him down andsaid it. I never risked rocking the boat by saying: "I need more. I need to hear it. I need you to be loud."
I squeezed Jimmy's hand one last time, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead—the same spot I used to kiss when he was small, sweaty from sleep, dreaming about dinosaurs and soccer. I didn't move, and neither did he. His forehead still pressed against my shoulder, his breath shaky but starting to slow, bit by bit.
"I know it doesn't feel like it right now," I whispered into his hair, "but this isn't going to be the story of your life, Jimmy. This is just the start of it. One day, you'll laugh about people like her. One day, you'll be so loved, you'll forget this even happened."
He sniffed but didn't answer.
"And you don't ever have to make yourselfsmallerfor someone else to want you, okay? Someone who deserves you will meet you where you are—and love all of it. The loud parts, the soft parts. All of it."
His fingers tugged slightly at the edge of my sleeve, barely noticeable, like he didn't know whether to hold on or let go.
"Do you believe me?" I asked softly.
He hesitated. "I don't know."
God, that hurt. But it was honest, and that was enough for now. I kissed his hair again, then slowly eased back. "That's okay. You don't have to yet."
I stood up, giving him his space again, smoothing my hand over his blanket just to do something with my hands.
"I'm here, whenever you want me."
He didn't answer, but as I left the room, I saw him pull the blanket up to his chin the way he used to when he was little, and that alone told me he wasn't as far gone as he thought. Once the door was closed behind me, I exhaled hard, pressing my back to the wall, fighting tears of my own.
By the time I reached the kitchen, my chest felt too full. Without thinking too hard, because if I did, I might talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and scrolled to August's name. My thumb hovered over the call button for half a beat before pressing it. The line rang once, twice, and then a third time before her voice answered, familiar and grounding.
"Hey," I said, my voice thinner than I expected. My breath caught on the way out, like it was trying to keep the words in. I stared at the kitchen tile, at the faint crack near the fridge I always meant to fix, and became suddenly aware of how loud the silence was around me—and how fast my heart was thudding in my chest.
"I need to ask you something, and maybe it's stupid—maybe it's pathetic," I said, pausing as my throat tightened. "But... do you think I'd be weak if I suggested couples therapy to Thomas?"
Chapter Twenty-Five: Blood & Bond
October went back to Jimmy and I got to my car and just sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel like it might offer me answers. Every time I left and went back to that apartment, the one that technically had my name on the lease but didn't feel like mine, something inside me cracked a little more. My real home was here, with October and the kids. This was supposed to be it. Our life. Our mess. Our mornings and dinners and fights and soft moments. But then it always hit me, the long list of moments I missed. The birthdays, the inside jokes I wasn't part of, the scraped knees I didn't kiss better, the tired looks she gave that I didn't notice because I thoughtwewere permanent. Like I could pick it all up later, like family worked like saving a game and coming back whenever it suited me.
I opened the glove compartment and pulled out the folded sheet of paper I wrote it the day Joseph told me what love is.
"Loving someone—really loving someone—is not about signing checks or standing next to them at the altar. It's about putting them before you. It's showing up when it's ugly. It's seeing their needs, not just your own. It's respecting them when they're in the room and when they're not. It's making damn sure they're emotionally and physically safe, especially from you. It's choosing them—over your pride, your distractions, your daddy issues, yourself—every day."
I turned the words into a list. I'd read it a dozen times already, the words burned into my memory, but I read it again anyway—because maybe repetition could teach me what love was supposed to mean:I didn't even realize I was tracing the words with my thumb until the edge of the paper softened from the pressure. Eventually, I stopped reading it like a paragraph and started turning it into a list. A checklist I should've been following from the very beginning.
