Page 21 of The Official Problem
He wanted to say he wouldn’t know, to ask her not to compare him to the man who’d stuck around just long enough to get her pregnant before vanishing, to insist he was nothing like him. He was still here, damn it, despite everything—despite her.
But what would that do? Nothing. Just ruin her good mood. He didn’t have the heart for that today.
“Mom,” he said, sitting in the chair opposite hers. The cramped room barely fit the second seat, but he and Julie had managed to rearrange the furniture to wedge it in. “How are you today?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” She waved him off, gently setting the book on the windowsill.
Matthieu recognized the title, it hadn’t changed in weeks. She always held it as if she’d just been reading, though the bookmark never moved.
“I don’t want to talk about me. What’s going on with you?”
“Not much.”
The season had just started, and his schedule was already packed. He had few friends, and even fewer obligations beyond keeping his mother housed and his sister in school. Honestly, life felt a little dull lately—not that he could afford excitement.
“I’ve got a game tonight at Keystone Arena. First home one for me.”
The first time he'd share the ice with Kieran since the disaster back in March. Well, outside of the carefully choreographed photo op a few weeks ago.
“That’s wonderful. Have you been traveling much?” she asked, sounding unusually light, almost pleasant.
“Not really. Mostly games in the city. But in two days I’ve got to fly to Pittsburgh for a couple, then one in Buffalo before I’m back.” Guilt pricked at him. Julie usually filled in when he traveled for stretches like this. “It’ll be two weeks before I can visit again.”
“That’s not a problem, dear.”
Her face, which had been calm and almost tranquil moments before, began to shift. Her brow furrowed, deep wrinkles cutting across her forehead as she stared out the window, stewing on whatever thought had sunk its teeth in.
“I’m lucky you bother to visit me at all,” she said at last, sharp and cold. “I haven’t seen Julie in over a month.”
He knew he should’ve agreed, but the need to defend Julie flared too strong. She’d given everything to their mother’s care over the years—more than he ever had—and deserved every second of the freedom she’d finally earned.
“She’s in Paris, Mom. Remember? For school. I told you last visit,” he said gently.
“You told me no such thing,” his mother snapped.
“Okay, Mom. Must’ve slipped my mind,” Matthieu said quickly, trying to defuse it. But it was too late.
“You don’t tell me anything. You lock me up in this place and forget about me until it’s convenient to visit. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been.” Her frustration rose, breaths turning short and shallow.
Guilt gripped Matthieu like a hand around his throat. Moving their mother into this place had been one of the hardest decisions he and Julie had ever made. Why couldn’t they have kept taking turns, juggling her care between work and school and everything else? It didn’t matter how volatile or violent she’d gotten. A better son would’ve held on longer, would’ve done what sons are supposed to do. He wouldn’t have locked her away and made her someone else’s problem.
On more rational days, he knew the answer was obvious. She needed more than a minder. She needed meds, doctor oversight, therapy. A community. Things he and Julie couldn’t give her anymore.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll try to come by more. Work’s been busy.”
“Excuses,” she hissed.
Panic tightened in his chest. He needed to leave before this spiraled, but how could he walk out after that? Still, he had to get some distance before it got worse. He stood slowly, backing away from where their knees had touched. Then he turned toward the door, giving space.
Her expression softened, his distance quelling the anxiety that had begun to bubble over as anger. Then her face shifted again, this time to a smile. Her eyes glinted, distant, like she was remembering something sweet.
“Just like your father,” she whispered, repeating herself like the earlier argument had never happened. She did this sometimes—talked in circles, forgot the middle, then bounced back to the start.
Matthieu drew a deep, grounding breath, willing himself to recenter. “Handsome, you said that already.”
She shot to her feet, finger stabbing the air. “Good for nothing. Abandoning me. Running away.” The calm had only been the eye of the storm. “Tell me—will I know it’s the last time you visit, or will you lie like he did? Promise me next week and disappear forever?”
“I’ll always visit you, Mom.” The words came out small and broken, like a child had said them. Matthieu hated how weak he sounded. How weak he was.
