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Lady doesn’t answer. In the blink of an eye, she’s picked Oscar up and started to sooth him with soft taps on the back. “You scared him!” she accuses.
“I’m his father!”
“You are a stranger!”
The words cut through my heart like a rusty arrow. It’s true. I’m a stranger to my own son.
My fists flex and I want to put a hole in the nearest wall, but I restrain myself, if only for Oscar’s sake. He’ll learn that I’m no stranger. I’ll do whatever it takes to gain his trust.
“What can I do?” I ask the lilting maid. Oscar seems to calm in her arms, and when she slings him over her shoulder, the tears disappear from his rosy cheeks.
“Grab his bottle,” Lady orders, gesturing towards the small fridge at the other end of the kitchen. I do as I’m told.
I open up the cold box and immediately spot the bottle. It’s hard not to, there’s barely anything else in the fridge. My chest constricts with shame as I grab the milk and slam the door shut. No son of mine should have to live with a nearly empty fridge. His home should be overflowing with everything anyone could ever ask for...
But because of my failures, he’s been forced to start out life like a mole rat, hiding underground and eating the scraps of others just to survive.
Lady takes the bottle from me and I sit against the kitchen counter. My eyes won’t leave Oscar as he’s sat down in a booster seat a few feet away. His curious green eyes wander over to me. I try to smile at him, but my lips just won’t turn upwards. Shame and frustration weigh my face down. My son deserves more than this.
Oscar doesn’t seem to mind my sullen look. Lady tips the bottle of cold milk up to his lips and the little boy greedily latches onto it. He chugs the formula down like a frat boy, but his big twinkling eyes don’t leave me.
“Shouldn’t you warm that up first?” I ask Lady, trying to make up for my earlier transgression.
“Oscar likes his formula cold.”
And just like that, I’ve learned the first fact about my son—it only leaves me hungry for more.
“What else does he like?”
“His mother.”
Finally, a smile finds its way onto my stony face. “Looks like we have something in common.”
12
Catalina
At least the lighting is better here.
“Please don’t move, miss,” a young girl says as she sticks a threading needle through the arm of my long white gown.
“How much longer?” I ask. This little fitting room might be more tolerable than that hellish prison cell I spent the last few days in, but at least I could sit down there. I’ve lost track of time, but it feels like I’ve been standing for hours now.
“I’m not sure,” the young seamstress whispers. Her squinted eyes are entirely focused on her work. “We’ve never been ordered to add sleeves to a wedding dress on such short notice.
“Couldn’t we have just gotten a new dress?” I ask, desperately wanting to sit down. I’m still sore from... well, from everything, and I’m not sure how much longer my legs will be able to prop me up. The last thing I want is another cut in my arm, but that’s what I’ll get if I collapse while Anna here is stitching up my sleeves.
“That’s what I said,” Anna mumbles. “But no one listens to me around here.”
“You and me both,” I grumble back.
Anna doesn’t return my attempt at banter. Instead, I’m left in silence as she concentrates on her task.
But I don’t want to be forced to concentrate on my task.
My mind desperately tries to focus on anything other than the event I’m being prepared for. If Dante wasn’t lying just to fuck with me, then we should be getting married in two days.
How horrifying is that?