chapter 3
1057 Words
"Mama, why do goldfish swim in circles?"
I looked up from the stack of bills I was pretending I could afford to pay and found my son's serious brown eyes staring at me from across our tiny kitchen table. At almost three, Noah asked questions like a tiny philosopher, and I loved him so much it physically hurt.
"Maybe they're playing a game," I said, setting down the overdue electric bill. "Like ring-around-the-rosy, but in water."
Noah considered this with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "But they don't fall down."
"No, they don't fall down." I reached over and ruffled his dark hair—hair that was exactly the same color as a stranger's I'd known for one night. "Maybe that's what makes them special."
He nodded like this made perfect sense and went back to his coloring book, tongue poking out in concentration. I watched him color a dinosaur purple and orange, and my heart did that thing it always did—swelled so big I thought it might burst right out of my chest.
Noah was everything beautiful about that night without any of the complications. He had his father's eyes and stubborn chin, but his smile was all his own—bright and mischievous and full of joy despite our circumstances.
Our circumstances being a one-bedroom apartment that was generous to call "cozy" and stingy to call "habitable."
The kitchen was three steps from the living room, which was two steps from the bedroom where Noah and I shared a double bed because I couldn't afford a crib when he was little and never got around to buying a toddler bed. The bathroom door didn't quite close all the way, and the heater only worked when it felt like it.
But it was ours.
I worked two jobs to keep it that way. Days at Rosie's Diner, slinging coffee and eggs to truckers and construction workers who tipped in quarters. Nights cleaning office buildings downtown, scrubbing toilets for people who made more in a day than I made in a month.
Mrs. Rodriguez next door watched Noah while I worked nights. She was seventy-three and spoke more Spanish than English, but she loved Noah like her own grandson and only charged me twenty dollars a week because she said children need community.
I paid her in whatever I could—sometimes money, sometimes groceries, sometimes just helping her carry her laundry upstairs.
"Mama?" Noah had moved on from dinosaurs to what appeared to be a rainbow-colored elephant. "Where's my daddy?"
My stomach dropped. He'd been asking this question more and more lately, ever since he'd started noticing that other kids had two parents.
"I told you, baby. Your daddy... he's not here."
"But where is he?"
I set down the bills and really looked at my son. Those brown eyes—God, they were so much like his father's it was like looking at a ghost.
"I don't know where he is," I said honestly. "We met a long time ago, before you were born, and then... sometimes grown-ups don't stay together."
"Did he know about me?"
This was the question that gutted me every time. "No, sweetheart. He doesn't know about you."
"Why not?"
Because I was drunk and stupid and never got his last name. Because I've spent three years trying to find him with nothing but a first name and a scar. Because I don't even know if Damien was his real name.
"It's complicated," I said, which was the understatement of the century.
Noah nodded like he understood, but then asked, "Will he ever know about me?"
"Maybe someday." Another promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
"Would he like me?"
I got up and wrapped my arms around him, pulling him onto my lap. He smelled like crayons and apple juice and that sweet little-boy scent that was uniquely his.
"Baby, he would love you so much. You're the most lovable person in the whole world."
Noah giggled and snuggled against me. "Even more than chocolate?"
"Even more than chocolate."
"Even more than dinosaurs?"
"Even more than dinosaurs."
"Even more than—"
"Even more than anything," I finished, kissing the top of his head.
We sat like that for a while, my son in my arms, the bills forgotten on the table. These were the moments that made everything worth it. The exhaustion, the fear, the constant worry about money and food and whether I was enough for him.
In these moments, I knew I was.
"Mama?" Noah's voice was sleepy now.
"Yeah, baby?"
"When I grow up, I'm gonna find my daddy and tell him about you."
My throat tightened. "Yeah? What are you gonna tell him?"
"That you're the best mama in the world. And that you make really good grilled cheese. And that you sing pretty songs when I'm scared."
Tears pricked my eyes. "What else?"
"That he missed out on the best kid ever." Noah looked up at me with a grin that was pure mischief. "Me."
I laughed despite the tears. "You're right. He definitely missed out."
---
Later that night, after Noah was asleep and I was getting ready for my shift at the office building, I caught myself staring at the one photo I kept hidden in my jewelry box.
It wasn't of his father—I didn't have any pictures of that night. It was of Noah at six months old, grinning toothlessly at the camera, his dark hair sticking up in every direction.
Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I found Damien. Would he want to know Noah? Would he be angry that I'd kept him secret? Would he try to take him away?
The thought terrified me.
But watching Noah color dinosaurs and ask about goldfish and promise to tell his father about grilled cheese sandwiches... I wondered if I had the right to keep them apart.
I tucked the photo back in the jewelry box and grabbed my cleaning supplies.
Some questions were too big to answer at two in the morning.
But as I locked the door behind me and headed into the night, I couldn't shake the feeling that someday, somehow, those storm-colored eyes were going to find us.
And when they did, everything would change.
I just hoped we'd be ready.
- Writer
