Divorce Before Valentine's

Chapter 7

(Caroline’s POV)

Morning light filters through the curtains of my old bedroom, and for one blissful moment, I forget where I am. Forget what happened. Then reality crashes back in like a wave, and I remember everything.

Samuel. Hailey. The study. Their crushing betrayal.

I close my eyes against the memory, but it doesn't help. I can still see them together, still hear Samuel's voice saying those terrible things about Charlie.

It’s funny how more than the image of them entangled together, what Samuel said about Charlie hurts me more.

I guess this is what it means to be a mother.

My phone is still off from last night. I'm not ready to turn it on yet, not ready to face whatever messages are waiting for me. Instead, I force myself out of bed and head to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks like a stranger. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, her hair a tangled mess, her skin pale and drawn. This isn't the Caroline I'm used to seeing—the one who has it all together, who smiles through everything, who makes it work no matter what.

This Caroline looks broken.

But I don't have time to be broken. Charlie needs me.

And getting broken over a man like Samuel isn’t worth it.

I find Charlie already awake in the guest room, sitting on the floor with his dinosaur, rocking slightly. It's one of his self-soothing behaviors, something he does when he's anxious or uncertain. The change in environment must be confusing for him. We didn't bring any of his familiar toys except the dinosaur, and the room doesn't smell like home.

"Hey, buddy." I sit down on the floor next to him, not too close—he doesn't always like being crowded. "Good morning."

Charlie doesn't look at me, but he stops rocking. That's a good sign.

"We're at Aunt Jasmine's house," I tell him, keeping my voice soft and even. "Remember? We've been here before. You like it here."

He rocks forward once, then back. His thumb goes to his mouth—another self-soothing behavior he usually only does when he's really stressed.

My heart clenches. He doesn't understand what's happening, why we left his room and his toys and his routine. How do I explain to a five-year-old with autism that his father is a cheating bastard who doesn't deserve us?

I can't. So I don't try.

"Let's go brush your teeth," I say instead. "Then we can have breakfast with Aunt Jasmine. Does that sound good?"

Charlie's hand drops from his mouth. He stands up, clutching his dinosaur, and follows me to the bathroom.

The morning routine helps. Brushing teeth, washing face, getting dressed—these are familiar actions that calm him down. By the time we make it downstairs, he's looking more like himself, less anxious.

I feel thankful for the days I used to bring him here. Even if he doesn’t remember every corner of this house clearly, his calmness is a sign that he must feel a vague familiarity with his surroundings.

Aunt Jasmine is already in the kitchen, and the smell of pancakes fills the air. She looks up when we enter and gives me a sad smile.

"Good morning, you two. I hope you're hungry."

Charlie's eyes go straight to the pancakes on the counter. He loves pancakes, especially when they're shaped like circles. Perfect, predictable circles.

"Can you tell Aunt Jasmine what you want for breakfast?" I ask Charlie, using the same gentle prompting I always do.

He doesn't answer right away. He rarely does. Instead, he points at the pancakes.

"Use your words, sweetie. What are those?"

"Pancakes," he says quietly, his eyes still on the food.

"Good job! Do you want pancakes for breakfast?"

"Yes, please."

Pride swells in my chest. It's such a small thing, such a simple exchange, but every word he speaks is a victory. Every moment of communication is precious.

Aunt Jasmine serves us all pancakes, and we sit down at the kitchen table. I cut Charlie's into small pieces—he doesn't like big bites—and arrange them in a circle on his plate. He picks up his fork and starts eating methodically, starting from the top and working his way clockwise around the plate.

"How did you sleep?" Aunt Jasmine asks me, though I can tell from her expression she already knows the answer.

"Not great." I push my pancakes around my plate, not really hungry. "But I'll survive."

"You need to eat, Caroline. Keep your strength up."

She's right, of course. I force myself to take a bite. The pancakes are good—fluffy and sweet—but they taste like ash in my mouth.

After breakfast, I take Charlie to the living room for his object sorting training. It's something his therapist recommended we do every day to help with his cognitive development and fine motor skills. I have a set of colored blocks in different shapes that I keep in a bag in my car—thank God I grabbed it when I was packing last night.

I dump the blocks out on the coffee table and sit down next to Charlie on the floor.

"Okay, buddy. Can you sort these by color for me?"

Charlie looks at the blocks, then back at me, then at the blocks again. This is hard for him—not the actual sorting, but the processing of what I'm asking him to do. I wait patiently, giving him time.

Finally, he reaches out and picks up a red block. Then another red one. Then another. He lines them up in a perfect row, each one exactly the same distance from the next.

"Great job!" I tell him. "Now can you find all the blue ones?"

We're halfway through the blue blocks when I hear a car door slam outside. Charlie's head jerks up at the sound—loud noises always startle him—and I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.