I marveled at his honesty. Children tell it to you straight. He was right though, and I wasn’t going to deny it. I didn’t have the energy to be kind to more than Oliver then. I was polite, but it was easy to tell that I lived in a perpetually displeased state and my tolerance was short, which meant I could jump from polite to snappish quickly.
“I could try harder to be kind. Would that help?” I asked.
“No. You’re not a mother, Baba. What about my dad? Why did Mama give me to you and not to him?”
I had five years to come up with an answer to that question and I still had nothing suitable. I told myself he was too young to learn his real father never wanted him. No one had ever called Aleksander his father when he was old enough to remember. For all he knew, he was just a friend of mine. As the years passed, he never seemed the right age to know about Aleksander.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I didn’t think to ask her why she chose me. Do you wish she hadn’t?”
His blue eyes widened. “No.Nooo.” He began to cry.
I stood, swiped him from his chair, and settled him in my lap. I was confused and hurt by his questioning. When I took a moment to remember he was only five and confused himself, I realized that he didn’t quite understand that if he had Father as his father, he wouldn’t have me in the same capacity.
I was all he knew. The assumption that he’d have parentsanda big brother who was father-like probably fit together in his head.
“Shhh. I’m not going anywhere, Eaglet.”
“So … so Mama had to pick between you and our dad? I only get one?”
It was close enough to the truth and what I thought his five-year-old brain could understand at the time. “Yes.”
“Okay. Love you, Baba.”
“I love you a terrifying amount, Eaglet.”
He didn’t ask any more questions that morning, and I was relieved. I knew I’d done a terrible job answering. If I could have come up with what I thought were better answers later, I would have corrected myself.
They never came.
I coaxed Oliver to eat his breakfast from my lap, but he was off for the rest of the meal in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. Had it been the conversation? He was five. Five-year-olds didn’t typically dwell. I checked his forehead. He didn’t feel hot. I contemplated whether I should call work. It was Friday anyway. Fridays were slow.
Darius stumbled out of the bedroom. He’d grown but had yet to grow into his new height so he was tall and lanky. He wore an oversized red t-shirt and loose blue jeans. “Kid, if you don’t start telling me when you leave the room, I’m going to tie your wrist to mine.”
Oliver stuck his tongue out at Darius.
Huh. Maybe he was fine.
“Oliver,” I said, carrying the last syllable of his name long.
“He deserved it.”
“He was scolding you for disobeying him.”
“He was tired.”
“Doesn’t matter. Do as you’re told, please.”
Teaching Oliver that lesson was vital. We didn’t know what lurked around the corner.
Oliver curled into me. Darius poured himself coffee. “Does he seem off to you?” I asked Darius.
Darius came over and pressed a hand to his forehead like I had. “Seems fine to me. What’s going on?”
I must have developed that parental sixth sense. I couldn’t see anything visibly wrong, but I knew something wasn’t right. I was probably paranoid. Iwasparanoid. The time was creeping closer to when I’d have to dress and leave. “Do you want to help me tie my tie, Eaglet?”
“I don’t know how, Baba.”
“Nobody knows how at first. I’ll show you.”
