"I'd like that," he says to Chesca.
He left once. He could leave again. And this time he wouldn't just break me. He'd break her too.
The thought surfaces and I shove it down. Not now. Not this morning.
The doorbell rings.
Chesca's chair scrapes back so fast it nearly tips over. "That's Sandy's mom!" She grabs her overnight bag, pink canvas bumping the wall as she swings it over her shoulder. "Bye Mamma, bye Cole!"
She hugs me first. Quick, fierce, smelling of strawberry shampoo and Lucky Charms. Then she runs to Cole and wraps her arms around his waist while he's holding the wooden spoon. He freezes for half a second before his free hand settles on her back.
Brief but real.
The pigeon bench man finally came inside. And now my daughter hugs him goodbye like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Got everything, sweetheart? Toothbrush?"
"YES, Mamma. Bye!" The door opens and slams behind her so quickly that I barely manage a brief wave to Sandy's mom', but I hear her cheerful voice carrying as they head to the minivan.
Cole moves to the window, watching until the minivan turns the corner. Then he pulls out his phone, types something quick.
"Xander?"
"He'll keep eyes on her the whole time. Discreet."
Of course he will. Even playdates and sleepovers get surveillance now. I should find it invasive and excessive and all the things I would have thought before judges started dying, but I don't. I'm grateful
Silence settles over the kitchen. The coffee maker sputters its final drips while cooling eggs sit on their plates. I pick up Chesca's cereal bowl, the milk turned green from the Lucky Charms, and carry it to the sink.
"Every day." I rinse the bowl, not looking at him. "You watched her walk into school. All those mornings?"
Cole takes the bowl from my hands and sets it in the drying rack. "Yes."
"Why her? Why not just—" I stop. The cameras covered me. The bench covered Chesca. He was watching both of us, from every angle he could manage.
"She trips on the same crack in the sidewalk most days. Third one from the crosswalk." He picks up the pan, runs water over it. "Puts her backpack on the wrong shoulder. Rain or shine, days I hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, it didn't matter. If I was in the city, I waited until she walked in, then I left."
The words land somewhere raw. I take the dish towel from the counter and start drying the bowl he just racked. Standing close enough that our elbows almost touch.
"I never knew. All those mornings rushing her out the door, worried about being late to court, stressed about everything. You were already there."
"That was the point." He shuts off the water and turns to face me, hip against the counter, hands still wet. "You weren't supposed to know. Neither was she."
"And if something had happened? If someone had tried to—"
"They wouldn't have made it off the sidewalk."
The certainty in his voice should frighten me. It doesn't. It settles something.
"Now you're inside." I fold the towel, creasing it once, then again. Something to do with my hands. "No more benches."
He takes the towel from me and sets it on the counter with deliberate care. "Now I'm inside. And I'm not leaving unless you tell me to."
My phone buzzes before I can respond. Uncle Sal.
Merda. Not now.
"I need to take this."