Page 36 of Isolation

This morning, the living room television played SportsCenter on mute—Mateo’s face appearing every few minutes in clips from last night’s game. He had managed thirty-two points, eight rebounds, and the game-winning three-pointer with 0.4 seconds left on the clock. The commentators’ mouths moved without sound, but I already knew what they were saying. Where was this Mateo Bryant hiding? How did a bench player transform into a playoff contender seemingly overnight? I knew where. I knew how. I just pretended I didn’t.

Our condo glowed in the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything was in place from the fresh-cut flowers I arranged yesterday to the precisely aligned sports magazines on the coffee table. Mateo’s face was on three different covers. I’d become meticulous about our surroundings as if keeping our physical space perfect might somehow balance the mess underneath it all.

“Babe, did you see they’re sending a car at eleven?” Mateo asked from the kitchen where he was making his protein shake.

The high-powered blender whirled to life before I could answer. Just as well. These days, we were experts at talking without saying anything meaningful.

I moved into the kitchen. My bare feet were silent against the marble floor. Mateo stood with his back to me, all six foot four of him emphasized by the fitted athletic gear he was already wearing. The team logo stretched across his broad shoulders. He’d gained weight since becoming a starter—all muscle sculpted by extra training sessions and the nutritionistthe team now provided. His body was another asset being carefully curated.

“I saw the email. I’ve already laid out your blue suit for the interview, the one that photographs well on camera,” I answered when the blender stopped.

He turned, flashing a smile. “What would I do without you?”

The question hung between us heavier than he intended. What would he do without me? Without my silence? Without my performance as the proud, supportive wife who never questioned how her husband suddenly leapfrogged three players on the depth chart?

“Crash and burn, baby,” I said with a wink, keeping my tone light.

He laughed, reaching for me, pulling me into a brief embrace that smelled like expensive cologne and ambition. His lips brushed my forehead—a gesture for an audience that wasn’t even here. We were practicing, always practicing.

Mason’s footsteps interrupted the moment. His superhero pajamas were rumpled from sleep as he stumbled into the kitchen. His eyes, so much like his father’s, lit up at the sight of Mateo.

“Daddy! You’re on TV again! Coach at school says you’re gonna win MVP!”

Mateo scooped him up, tossing him playfully before settling him on a barstool at our kitchen island.

“That right? Well, your coach knows his basketball.”

I slid a bowl of fresh fruit in front of Mason, ruffling his hair. “Breakfast first. Sports talk later. You want some eggs, baby?”

Mason nodded, but his eyes followed Mateo as he moved around the kitchen with newfound confidence as if success had physically altered his posture. My son watched his father the way boys do with admiration bordering on worship. The weight of that devotion tightened something in my chest.

“Your eggs, sir,” I said, placing the plate in front of Mason, who dug in immediately.

Mateo checked his phone, scrolling through what I knew was an endless stream of notifications, congratulations, interview requests—the digital trail of his rising fame.

I fixed my own plate, settling beside Mason while Mateo leaned against the counter barely present as he responded to texts. The three of us occupied the same space, going through the motions of a family breakfast, but something essential had shifted. There was a new distance between Mateo and me, between who we were and who we were becoming.

Mason’s fork paused midway to his mouth. His eyes darted from me to Mateo then back to me.

“Is everything okay?” he asked suddenly. His voice was small but clear.

The question hit me like cold water. Children sensed things—shifts in atmosphere, tension beneath smiles. Mason had always been perceptive, picking up on undercurrents that adults thought they were hiding.

“Yes! Everything’s perfect, baby. Daddy’s doing amazing at basketball, we’re all healthy, and I made your favorite eggs. What could be wrong?” My words came out too bright too quick. I forced a wider smile, reaching to squeeze his little hand.

Mason studied my face for a long moment, his five-year-old features scrunched in concentration. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded and returned to his breakfast.

“They are my favorite eggs,” he confirmed solemnly.

Over his head, Mateo’s eyes met mine. There was a question there I didn’t want to answer, an assessment happening behind his calm exterior. He’d always been good at reading people. It was what made him a solid point guard before all this. Now, that same skill felt dangerous when turned on me.

“I’ve got some calls to make before the interview. An agent wants to discuss that sportswear deal,” Mateo said finally, draining his protein shake.

I watched him go and studied the easy confidence in his stride, the subtle swagger that wasn’t there before. Sometimes, I looked at him and saw glimpses of the Mateo I’d fallen for—dedicated, determined, with something to prove. But something new emerged alongside his success, a hardness around the edges, a calculation behind his eyes.

“Mommy, can I watch cartoons?” Mason asked, pushing his empty plate away.

“Sure, baby. The sitter is coming today.”

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