Page 8 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)
Chapter Eight
A spen
Monday morning hits like a freight train after yesterday’s surprisingly pleasant lake walk. Milo bounces through breakfast, still chattering about Sebastian’s gentle way with the frog and asking if we can “visit Mr. Sebastian’s house sometime.”
“We’ll see, Bug,” I say, packing his lunch with hands that still remember the electric moment when Sebastian steadied me at the produce stand. “Remember, he’s just helping us with the library situation.”
“But he likes us, right?” Milo’s question carries the weight of a four-year-old’s need for security. “He’s not going to disappear like Daddy does?”
My chest tightens. “Mr. Sebastian keeps his promises, Bug. When he says he’ll do something, he does it.”
Unlike some people, I don’t add, but Milo’s relieved smile tells me he understands the difference.
The morning drop-off at Little Dragons is its usual controlled chaos, but Miss Lee pulls me aside.
“I wanted to mention,” she says, glancing around to make sure we’re not overheard, “the father-son breakfast is in a few weeks and I need your permission slip to allow him to accompany Milo.”
Right. The breakfast Milo’s been chattering about for days, carefully organizing his thoughts about what he’ll tell Derek about his latest dinosaur discoveries.
“He’s so excited about it,” Miss Lee continues. “He’s been practicing his presentation about stegosaurus armor plating. Such a bright boy.”
“Derek confirmed he’ll be there,” I say, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “Milo’s made a whole list of things to show him.”
“Wonderful! It’s always special when the children get to share their passions with their parents. I have the slip ready for you to sign.” I sign the bottom of the page that will allow Derek to enter Little Dragons with his son.
Walking back to my car, I pull out my phone and send Derek a text: Don’t forget. Father-son breakfast. Milo’s SO excited to see you and show you his project. I add the date and time in a separate text so it will be easier for him to find.
The last time Derek picked Milo up was Presidents’ Day weekend, almost a month ago now.
Before that, it was New Year’s Day—and he’d been three hours late, blaming traffic from his New Year’s Eve party.
The pattern is becoming depressingly predictable: big promises, enthusiastic planning, then some crisis that makes follow-through impossible.
His response comes quickly: Wouldn’t miss it! Can’t wait to see what the little scientist has been working on.
Relief floods through me. Maybe this time really will be different. Maybe Derek’s finally ready to be the consistent presence Milo needs.
The rest of the day passes in its usual blur—Harmony Market shift, diner shift, client calls squeezed into break times. But underneath the routine chaos, I find myself thinking about Sebastian. How his snakes had seemed to dance with joy when Milo giggled.
How his hand had felt warm and steady against mine.
Stop it. This is a business arrangement. Fake dating to solve a real problem. Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.
But when I pick up Milo from Little Dragons, his first question isn’t about snacks or playtime.
“Can we go see Mr. Sebastian again soon? I want to show him my new dinosaur book.”
“We’ll see him soon at storytime,” I remind him. “Mr. Sebastian is trying hard to make that happen as quickly as possible.”
“Good,” Milo says with satisfaction. “I like him. He makes you smile differently.”
“Differently how?”
“Like you smile when Daddy keeps his promises.”
The observation hits me hard. When did my four-year-old become so perceptive about adult emotions? When did he start measuring my happiness against Derek’s failures?
That evening, as I tuck him into bed with Super Steggy and his new dinosaur book, Milo looks up at me with serious eyes.
“Mama? Do you think Daddy will really come this time?” The question is so quietly hopeful it breaks my heart.
“He promised he would, Bug.”
“But he promised before, too.” Milo’s grip on Super Steggy tightens. “Maybe I shouldn’t get too excited. Maybe I should just… expect it might not happen.”
The matter-of-fact resignation in his voice is devastating. My four-year-old is learning to armor his heart against disappointment, and I can’t protect him from it.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay to be excited about things you want. That’s what hope is—believing good things can happen even when they’ve gone wrong before.”
“But what if he doesn’t come? What if something important comes up again?”
I smooth his hair back, my throat tight. “Then we’ll figure it out. We always do. You and me, we’re a team.”
“I know,” Milo says softly. “You’re right…”
My son may only be four, but he’s almost too perceptive for his own good.
After he falls asleep, I sit in my tiny living room surrounded by the organized chaos of single motherhood and wonder when my son learned to hope carefully.