Page 25 of One Little Mistake

They step out of the kitchen, and I quickly turn on the kettle, reaching for the box of baby formula.

My ears stay tuned to the quiet voices coming from deeper inside the apartment.

They’re definitely talking about me. I can only hope Max manages to make it clear to his mother that I’m not after him.

The last thing I need is unnecessary drama or accusations.

Mrs. Taylor returns a few minutes later, wearing a tight smile, watching my every move like a hawk.

“You have a beautiful little boy, Erin,” she says after a pause, eyes fixed on Tim, now peacefully resting in my arms. “Ah, I keep dreaming of grandchildren, but it seems I’ll be waiting a while longer,” she sighs, almost dramatically.

I watch her cross the kitchen like she owns the place. She walks straight to the right cabinet and pulls out tea, then a mug. No hesitation. Like she’s done it a thousand times before. She fills the kettle, glances inside the fridge. And something inside me flares. Uncomfortable. Territorial.

Because despite everything, this kitchen feels like mine now. I’ve been cooking here, organizing the shelves, rearranging the spices. Watching someone else take over, even his mother, makes me bristle.

“And what do you do, Erin?” she asks, her gaze flicking back to me.

“I’m a florist,” I reply. “I have a little shop. I also do floral designs for weddings and events.”

“Charming,” she says. Though I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or just something polite to say.

A few moments of awkward silence pass. I focus on Tim, rocking him gently, pretending not to be bothered by the woman’s presence.

“You like my son,” she says suddenly—not a question. A statement.

“I’m sorry?” I look up, startled, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“I see the way you two look at each other. I see how you look at Max. What I don’t understand is why he’s lying to me. Yes, he’s private, but he’s always trusted me. I’ve never judged his choices. It’s his life.”

“With all due respect, it’s not what you think,” I say, offering a nervous smile. “There’s nothing going on between us.”

“A bottle brush, house slippers, tableware that wasn’t here before, flowers on the windowsill—” she gestures toward the blooming orchids.

A full fridge. You’re clearly not just the neighbor from the sixth floor.

If you’re even the neighbor at all.” Her eyebrow lifts sharply.

Her tone is sharp. I feel myself flushing with shame.

“How long have you been staying here?” she presses.

“I… I’m not in a relationship with your son, I promise,” I say quietly. “Max just helped me out. I do live in this building. My place is under renovation, so I’ve been spending most of my time here with my son. That’s all.”

“But you do like my Max,” she states matter-of-factly.

Just then, the kettle whistles, saving me from having to answer. I exhale in relief as she turns her back to me, busily stirring sugar into a teacup.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says over her shoulder, her tone tight but polite. “I have nothing against your… arrangement. I just always hoped he’d get back together with his ex-wife. They were such a beautiful couple. So in love. I still believe it’s not too late.”

She’s trying to get under my skin—I realize that much. But why? Max is a grown man. He’s hardly the type to be manipulated by his mother.

“I know he’s divorced,” I say carefully, “but I think Max might already be seeing someone else. Though I can’t say how serious it is…”

I’m not sure why I bring it up—maybe I’m fishing. Hoping she’ll mention the mysterious Natalie, the woman who called in the middle of the night.

Mrs. Taylor turns around abruptly. There’s a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. But when I don’t, the spark fades. Her smile falters. Suddenly, she looks tired. She sits down beside me at the kitchen table.

“No need to lie. I’m not some wicked witch,” she says with a crooked smile. “You’ve met Elena, haven’t you? She hasn’t visited Max since he came back.”

I blink, unsure where she’s going with this.

“You look just like she described,” she adds.

“I was really hoping the baby was Max’s.

But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have told his father and me the good news by now?

I suppose Elena said something just to get under Cynthia’s skin.

Those two never got along after the divorce.

And Max—well, he’s always been private. Maybe he didn’t want to shock us with sudden changes. ”

I stay quiet. God, this is a mess. Max is definitely not going to be happy that, in just ten minutes, his mom and I managed to escalate things to the point where she now thinks we’re a couple.

“You know,” I sigh, rolling my eyes, “lately, everyone assumes I’m dating Max and that he’s Tim’s father. And now here you are, joining the club.”

She doesn’t seem angry with me—more like… disappointed. Though I’m not sure what exactly has let her down: that Max hasn’t reunited with the oh-so-perfect ex-wife? That my baby isn’t his? Or that he might actually be involved with a woman who already has a child from someone else?

“Then why would he help you, Erin, if there’s nothing between you two?”

Mrs. Taylor tilts her head, her tone probing.

“You probably know your son better than I do,” I answer, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Yes, he seems gruff and distant, and I’m sure he could drill a hole in a wall just with that look of his…

but deep down, he’s incredibly kind and caring.

I’m endlessly grateful for what he’s done.

If not for Max, I might not have even gotten to see my son… ”

I glance down at my sleeping baby, my chest tightening with that familiar ache of tenderness. We’ve been through so much already… and who knows what hopes and heartbreaks still lie ahead?

“I think whoever ends up becoming his wife will be very lucky to have a man like that by her side.”

“Well, let’s just hope my future wife appreciates those qualities,” comes a voice from behind me, deep and warm.

I jump in my seat.

A few heavy steps, and then the soft thud of a paper bag hitting the table. The scent of fresh pastries wafts through the kitchen. Max stands over me—too close, too present—and I suddenly can’t bring myself to look up.

How long has he been standing there?

What did he hear?

Was he around when I mentioned Natalie?

My heart thunders in my chest, loud enough that I think they both can hear it. I feel embarrassed by everything I said. Thank God I didn’t add that I wouldn’t mind having a husband like him myself.

“Hope my mom didn’t tire you out with all her chatting?” Max teases.

“She’s a bit more talkative than you, so yeah… in ten minutes, I heard and said more than I have in the past two days.” I try to joke, my voice lighter than I feel.

“And you’re hardly a chatterbox yourself,” he counters, flashing me a look. “Unless we’re talking about dinner options, you don’t say much at all.”

Then he turns to his mother, who’s been quietly watching us.

“So, Mom, what made you rush over here in this kind of weather?” he asks casually. “Actually, never mind. Elena already called and apologized for oversharing and… embellishing the story a bit.”

He throws his hands up. “As you can see, I’m still very much single and not hiding anyone from you.”

Mrs. Taylor rolls her eyes. The lines on her face soften, and the smile returns. She looks at her son with affection as she opens the bag of pastries.

“Well, the girls almost clawed each other’s eyes out over you,” she says. “Elena threatened to rip out every last hair on Cynthia’s head if she so much as looked in your direction again. I figured I’d better come sort things out myself.”

“I’ll talk to Elena,” Max mutters, his tone shifting instantly. The humor drains from his face, replaced with that familiar brooding seriousness. “She’s acting like a child.”

“She’s protecting you… from what, though?

” his mother wonders aloud, her voice tinged with concern.

“You haven’t told me everything, have you?

Same old Max—bottling it up, carrying the world on your shoulders like no one else exists.

You forget you have a family, one that would gladly carry the load with you. ”

She sighs and looks at me with a sad little smile. “I tried to help you two make peace. Cynthia was like a daughter to me, you know that. But maybe it’s time to let that go. When you’re ready, Max… tell me everything. If you think I need to know.”

She stands, brushing imaginary crumbs from her lap.

“Thanks for the pastries, but I should go. I’ll call a cab, don’t worry. Stay home. It’s rude to leave a guest all alone.”

“Mom,” Max calls after her, taking a step forward, but Helga is already heading out of the kitchen. She’s hurt—I can tell. Maybe not by anything he said, but by everything he didn’t.

Of course, I get it. To her, Max will always be her little boy—someone to protect and fuss over.

But he’s a grown man now. He has his own life, and some things—especially personal things—just aren’t meant to be shared with your parents.

Not out of secrecy, but out of love. Because you don’t want to worry them with the weight you’re barely managing to carry yourself.

Max follows his mom out, leaving me behind. An unwilling witness to a conversation that clearly wasn’t meant for my ears.

But now I can’t stop wondering… What really happened between Max and his ex-wife?

Max leaves, and I’m left alone with the baby.

Tim falls asleep quickly, and I stay close by, so I don’t even hear Max return.

I flinch awake when I finally notice him lying on the bed next to us.

He’s reading something, hasn’t realized I’m awake yet.

So I lie still, trying to breathe as quietly as possible while watching his profile.

He looks relaxed, totally unbothered by my presence, but somehow the room feels warmer, more comforting, just because he’s in it.

It’s a strange feeling that’s hard to put into words, but I know it’s real.

We’ve barely spent any time together, and yet it’s enough for me to feel…

something. Something soft and uncertain, like the very beginning of affection.

I get so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even notice when Max stops reading. His eyes are on me now. He’s watching me. How long has he been doing that?

“Hey,” I whisper, swallowing the lump in my throat, feeling strangely exposed under his gaze.

“Hey,” he whispers back, careful not to wake Tim. “You hungry? I brought a bunch of food—not the healthiest, but definitely tasty.”

Food. Of course. It’s the only safe topic we ever seem to land on.

“I could’ve made dinner,” I offer, even though I know how that sounds.

“Maybe. In a week or so.” He closes his book and gives me a small shrug. “Just because you’re getting better doesn’t mean you should stop taking care of yourself.”

“How’s your mom?” I ask after a pause, not really knowing what else to say.

“She’ll survive,” he says with a half-smile, snapping the book shut and getting up from the bed. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.”

“Okay,” I whisper. But what I really want to say is: Stay. Don’t leave. Just… sit with me for a little while longer.

Later, after the sun’s gone down and my phone chirps with its usual feeding reminder, I pick up Tim and tiptoe quietly through the dark hallway.

And then I jump and nearly scream, when someone rings the doorbell.