Page 93 of Arseni
“And if all else fails, just remind him of your own experience with the system.Then he’ll really know youget it.”
An amused grin spreads across my face while Arseni’s eyes narrow.He breaks away from my hold to head for the door.
“Not funny,” he calls behind him.
“A little funny.”
When we get to the door, Arseni hesitates with his hand on the knob.The doorbell rings a second time, and he still doesn’t answer it.
“Babe.”
He shushes me, then takes a deep breath.When he opens the door, a social worker and the boy, smaller than I pictured, stare up at him.
I remember this same moment six years ago with so much clarity, I search for the similarities.There’s a trash bag in the social worker’s hands, but it’s nowhere near as full as Arseni’s was.The little boy looks more scared than Arseni did.
And my heart, once empty and desperate, doesn’t leap from my chest this time.It fills.Floods.Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that this time, I’m looking at my son.
“Hi,” Arseni squeaks before clearing his throat.“Please come in.”
The social worker introduces us to Santiago while the boy doesn’t say a word.According to Arseni, he’s never heard him speak.He’s found him sitting outside by himself, communicating only with a stick or a dribble of a basketball Arseni once rolled into the boy’s yard.
When the social worker leaves, the three of us stand awkwardly for a moment.
“Would you like to see your room?”Arseni asks.
The boy just stares.
“Are you hungry?”
The boy doesn’t even blink.
Arseni turns to me.“You uh, you made brownies, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Would you like a brownie?”Arseni asks Santiago.The nervousness in Arseni’s voice is so apparent, I want to hug him.But damn, he deserves this.
Arseni’s foot taps as he looks around, his hand scratching at the back of his neck.It’s only been a minute, but he acts like we’ve been standing here for twenty.With a snap of his fingers, he strides toward the guest room.
Santiago’s gaze follows him.
Arseni returns carrying a basketball.He kneels in front of the boy and offers it like he’s offering his last meal to a king.There’s kindness in my love’s eyes that touch my heart and remind me all over again why I fell in love with him.
Arseni is so many things.Not all of them are good.
Sometimes he’s struck with fear that pushes people away.Sometimes he says things he doesn’t mean.
But the things that really matter.Loyalty.Honesty.Love.
He has those in spades.And staring at him now, I cup my belly absently and fill with the knowledge that he’ll love our children with the same intensity as he loves me.He already does.
Santiago takes the ball cautiously and brings it to his chest.Seconds pass while nothing happens.
But then, to my surprise and glee, my new son’s lips quirk up.
Seven months later, as he holds his baby sister in his arms, they spread into a full grin, and the photo of the moment rests on our mantle next to my mother’s drawing.Beside that is Arseni and I on our wedding day, our lips locked.
We’re in the living room with Uncle Luka and Aunt Lucia—both of us drowsy beyond belief after a sleepless night with the baby—when Arseni slips up by calling me Mommy.It’s a reflex from talking to the kids.
Lucia laughs, her brow furrowing.
But I smile.
Because finally, I can say that I don’t hate it.
* * *