Chapter One
(Sky)
He used to fall asleep on my chest with his fist wrapped in my shirt.
So tight sometimes it hurt. Like he was afraid if he let go, I'd disappear.
I remember the first night we brought him home to our apartment in Queens. One room. A mattress on the floor. Heat that rattled like it might give up any second. I was nineteen, bones aching, eyes burning, hands shaking as I held something so small I thought I might break him just by breathing wrong.
Evan cried for hours.
I cried with him.
"I've got you," I whispered over and over, even though I had no idea how I was supposed to keep that promise. "Mama's here. I won't let anything happen to you."
He smelled like milk and warmth and something clean I didn't deserve.
I worked my first shift three weeks later. Diner on the corner of 47th. My uniform swallowed me whole. My breasts leaked through the fabric. My heart ached the entire time I was gone.
When I came home, he smiled at me.
A real smile. Wide and gummy and trusting.
That smile became my religion.
Years passed like that. Me working. Him growing. Me loving. Him needing. He learned to walk holding onto my jeans. Learned to talk saying "Mama" like it was the only word that mattered.
People used to tell me I was doing amazing.
They stopped saying that once he got older.
Now he's seventeen.
Now he doesn't smile at me.
Now he doesn't touch me unless he has to.
This morning, I knock softly on his bedroom door before opening it, like I'm a guest in my own home.
"Evan," I say gently. "You'll be late."
He groans, pulling the blanket over his head.
I walk in anyway. Sit on the edge of his bed. He's all limbs now. Taller than me. Shoulders broad. Face sharp in a way that makes my chest ache because I still see the baby underneath it.
I reach out without thinking, brushing his hair back like I used to.
"Don't," he snaps, sitting up fast. "God, why do you always do that?"
My hand drops.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately. Always immediately. "I just wanted to wake you."
He rolls his eyes. "You don't have to act like I'm five."
I smile anyway. "You'll always be my baby."
His jaw tightens.
"That's gross."
The word lands harder than he knows.
I stand, smooth my sweater, pretend it didn't hurt. "There's toast. And eggs. Eat before school, okay?"
He doesn't answer.
As I leave the room, I glance back once.
For a second, just a second, he looks like he used to. Hair messy. Eyes heavy. Lost.
Then he looks away.
I go to work an hour later. Then another shift after that. My hands ache. My back burns. My feet swell inside cheap shoes.
But when I come home, I still open my arms when I see him.
Because once, a long time ago, he held onto me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
And I never learned how to stop loving him like that.