Page 101 of One Little Mistake

I throw on some clothes, grab Tim, and rush to the elevator. I get the key from the concierge and head straight to that familiar door. I unlock it cautiously, as if expecting to find his ex-wife still inside.

But the place is empty.

I step slowly across the cold floor, then start checking the apartment, almost obsessively. I go over every corner, especially the bedroom and bathroom. But there’s nothing—nothing to suggest that Max spent the night with another woman. The only signs that anyone was here at all are two unwashed mugs in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, on the dresser in the living room, I spot a few of Tim’s rattles that I forgot to take. And in the closet, neatly folded, are my scarf, a tank top, and a few hair ties.

I cover my mouth with my hand. God, how foolish I’ve been. Foolish, mistrustful, impulsive. I ruined our chance to say goodbye properly, doubted a man who never once gave me a reason to. But can I really be blamed for struggling to trust again, after everything that’s happened to me? My caution turned into self-sabotage. But it’s okay. We’ll have time. So much time. I’m done with doubt and second-guessing. I want to be with Max. Beside him. Living under one roof, falling asleepand waking up in the same bed, watching him eat my cooking and feeling proud that such an incredible man is mine.

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to text him. To tell him how deeply I’ve fallen in love with him, even if it feels crazy after such a short time. We barely know each other. We haven’t even had the time to talk about our pasts, our favorite things, the little details that make a person. But we’ll get there. All that matters now is hearing his voice, knowing he’s okay, and finding something—anything—to explain why I disappeared this morning and didn’t answer his calls.

That’s when I realize I left my phone in the rental apartment. I rush to the sixth floor and groan in frustration when I realize I locked myself out in the rush.

It takes forever to call the landlord, explain the situation, and wait for him to bring the spare keys. By the time I finally get my phone, there are seven more missed calls from Max and several messages. Panic grips me. I snatch the phone with one hand while making formula with the other for my hungry son—second time today I’ve fed him off-schedule because I can’t pull myself together—and I call Max immediately, but it goes straight to voicemail. My heart sinks. I hate myself a little in that moment.

With shaking fingers, I type out a short message. It’s not the truth—it’s a lie, an excuse—but I don’t know how else to fix this.

“I’m so sorry. I had my phone on silent and couldn’t find it in the house.”

I stare at it for a second, then add, “I love you, Max. So much. And I’m waiting. We’re waiting for you. Come home to us soon.”

Tears spill down my cheeks.

I can’t sit still, can’t breathe right. So I spend the rest of the evening packing clothes back into drawers and suitcases, preparing to move in—so that when Taylor comes back, we’ll be here. Just like he wanted. After all, what are three months, when I’ve waited my whole life for him?

***

Max never told me the name of his ship, so I can’t track its location online—and when he hasn’t been online for an entire week, I start to worry. I miss him so much. Desperately. It still hurts that fate decided everything for us and didn’t give us even a few more days together. And I keep blaming myself for that night—for how impulsive, cowardly, and downright stupid I was.

May greeted Tim and me with sunshine, green lawns, and the sweet scent of blooming trees around the house. This morning, my mom called and said she’s finally flying in to see her grandson. I’m thrilled—we’ve only spoken over the phone for so long—but even that joy can’t override the sharp, persistent anxiety lodged deep in my chest.

I can’t put my phone down. I’m afraid to miss a call from Max—even when I’m in the shower. I’ve started putting the apartment back together, moved Tim’s crib back into the nursery. He’s grown so much, already holding his head up and babbling like a little chatterbox.

And all this time, I’ve avoided even thinking about my ex. Or no—not out of fear. I simply don’t want to see him again. I wish he’d forget we exist and disappear from our lives forever. He seems to have no rush to stay in touch with his son anyway. He texted once, asking if we needed money. I said no, of course.

The evening is quiet. A soft drizzle taps on the windows, lulling me into drowsiness, but I don’t go to bed yet. I’m standing in the living room, ironing tiny baby blankets, half-watching the evening news when something on the screen makes my heart skip. My gaze flicks up, away, then snaps back.

Wait… was that…?

Panic kicks in. I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

“…negotiations are ongoing to bring the captured sailors home. A special hotline has been set up for the families, where you can get the latest updates…”

I freeze the screen and dash to the hallway, frantically digging through my bag for a pen and paper. My temples pound, hands shake, heat rushes through my body like fire. Panic rises like a wave. I feel dizzy.

No. No. That wasn’t Max. It can’t be. Just someone who looks like him. It was a blurry ID-style photo, maybe from a personnel file—people get misidentified in photos like that all the time. Right?

I don’t even remember how my fingers dial the number. I don’t realize the ringing has stopped until a soft female voice comes through the line.

“Hello? Are you there? I can’t hear you.”

“Uh—yes, I’m here,” I stammer, trying to find the words. “I… I saw the news on TV, and I think… I think my husband was on that ship. But I only caught the end of the report…”

“Can you please give me your husband’s full name and the name of the vessel?”

“Max Taylor. I don’t know the name of the ship,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Max Taylor, is that correct?”

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