Page 16 of Ruthless Addiction

He stepped closer.

“Mom... are you crying?”

“Come here, sweetheart,” I murmured, forcing a smile I didn’t feel.

Vanya crossed the sun-drenched room with that quiet confidence unique to him, moving like a little prince who had never known fear.

His navy sneakers whispered against the marble, the afternoon light catching on his curls like tiny halos.

He climbed into my lap without hesitation, his small arms wrapping around my waist, his warmth sinking into my bones.

The scent of his lavender soap—always lavender, always gentle—soothed the frayed edges of my heart.

“You look worried, Mom,” he said softly. His Greek accent curled around the words, warm and musical from years of growing up in Athens.

He spoke like a child of the city—shaped by communal feasts under string lights, dancing to bouzouki rhythms with neighbors who treated him as their own, listening wide-eyed to storytellers who breathed ancient gods back to life. “What’s troubling you?”

His eyes studied mine—searching, perceptive, too wise for his five years.

I smoothed my fingers through his curls, pulling him close so I could bury my face in his warm scalp. “Just thinking, my love,” I whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

I fought to keep my voice steady, to shield him from the storm clawing at my insides.

Vanya had always been a storyteller. A prodigy, really.

He was the neighborhood’s beloved performer, gathering children in the courtyard like a tiny king addressing his court.

I’d watch from the stone archway as he climbed onto a bench, thrusting his small hands in grand gestures, weaving tales of pirates and dragons with a flair that mesmerized even the adults sipping their evening coffee.

But today...

His stories had been quiet.

His laughter softer.

His eyes distant—as if he’d sensed the letter burning a hole in my chest.

I hugged him closer, breathing him in, wishing I could draw strength from his tiny, unbreakable spirit. “Tell me a story, Vanya,” I said gently, desperate to drown in his voice rather than my memories.

He grinned—bright and sudden—before launching into an animated tale about a fearless sailor battling a monstrous sea serpent, his hands mimicking crashing waves and snapping jaws.

I laughed despite myself, feeling the weight in my chest lighten. His imagination always pulled me back from the cliff.

But beneath that joy lay the familiar ache—the quiet burden of raising him alone.

Every milestone, every scraped knee, every bedtime story—mine alone.

No husband.

No father.

No partner to shoulder the weight.

And Vanya, for all his confidence, for all his spark... felt the absence.

He noticed fathers cheering at soccer games.

He noticed men holding their sons on their shoulders at the pier.