I built a life for us that turned out to have a lie at the foundation so large it retroactively changes the shape of everything. And I didn’t see it coming until a dead woman’s memorial photos showed me a face I should have recognized years ago.
If I were objective about this, I would say: yes. Probably. The jury is in unanimous agreement.
I’m a shit mom.
Goddammit, I need to get out of this bed.
I slip out of the sheets without waking Caleb and tiptoe across the living room and down the hall to press my ear to Bruiser’s door. When I hear the small, steady sound of Bruiser’s snoring, I breathe out in relief.
The awful squeezing sensation in my chest eases two degrees.
Whatever else I’ve done wrong, my kiddo is alive and breathing and in one piece.
I want to take a shower but don’t dare in the shared bathroom across from Bruiser’s room in case it disturbs or wakes him.
So I slink back to Caleb’s room and into his ensuite, closing the door carefully behind me. The bathroom is aggressively bright, decorated with white subway tile and a rainfall showerhead big enough to stand under without touching the glass walls.
I turn the water on hot and step in before it’s fully warm, standing there with my face tipped up into the spray.
My body is sore in ways that have nothing to do with the mad flight away from Z. My muscles are achy in good ways thatbelong entirely to choices I made with my whole chest. There’s no shame layered into the soreness or grime the water needs to burn away. It’s a new enough sensation to still feel surprising. Could I actually get used to this feeling? Passionate safety in Caleb’s arms?
The steam builds around me and I don’t fight against the rage that’s been boiling underneath everything. Because finally, that feels safe to release, too. I think maybe I’m only beginning to suspect all the tectonic rage that’s been bubbling after living on a foundation built on someone else’s lies.
Z took years from me. Almost my entire twenties.
He did it in large dramatic ways and in small subtle ways that barely registered at the time.
Z always made out like he was so generous and patient with my failures. Mymanyfailures. He did such consistent, quiet work to make sure I understood the depth of those letdowns, so that I always tried harder and harder to please him.
As if I was the problem.
I was too busy managing my own guilt to see what he was actually doing the whole time.
And the worst thing is, Ididlove him. I might not have beeninlove with him, but Ilovedhim so deep in a way I thought still meant something?—
A sob chokes its way out of my chest, surprising me with its vehemence.
Furiously, I grab the shampoo, squirt it out, then scrub it into my hair. I gave Z everything I had to spare after Bruiser.
I certainly didn’t save anything for myself.
I don’t even know who Harper Tuckerisoutside of being Bruiser’s mother and Z’s dog. That’s the part that guts me most—not the betrayal, not even the lie about being Bruiser’s father, but the fact that I went along with my own diminishment foryears and called it “making it work.”Being practical. Just doing what I’d done since I was a Goddamn kid.
Surviving.
The steam is dense now, the glass of the shower long since fogged over. I close my eyes and let the heat work into my shoulders.
“I don’t suppose I could offer to help wash your hair.”
I spin around so fast I nearly slip on the wet tile.
Caleb is standing just outside the glass door, head ducked around the opening, eyes very firmly shut. Ever the gentleman. His hair is sleep-rumpled, and he’s holding the door handle like he’s prepared to retreat immediately if requested. Even now, even here, he’s asking.
He’s alwaysasking. Never demanding or taking.
“You can open your eyes,” I say, my voice coming out soft. I’m glad the shower spray hides the tears on my cheeks.
He opens the door, and for a moment he just looks at me through the steam with an expression between reverence and relief, like he woke up and was surprised I was still here. His vulnerability squeezes my chest.