Page 69 of One Little Mistake

A few heavy steps, and then the soft thud of a paper bag hitting the table. The scent of fresh pastries wafts through the kitchen. Max stands over me—too close, too present—and I suddenly can’t bring myself to look up.

How long has he been standing there?

What did he hear?

Was he around when I mentioned Natalie?

My heart thunders in my chest, loud enough that I think they both can hear it. I feel embarrassed by everything I said. Thank God I didn’t add that I wouldn’t mind having a husband like him myself.

“Hope my mom didn’t tire you out with all her chatting?” Max teases.

“She’s a bit more talkative than you, so yeah… in ten minutes, I heard and said more than I have in the past two days.” I try to joke, my voice lighter than I feel.

“And you’re hardly a chatterbox yourself,” he counters, flashing me a look. “Unless we’re talking about dinner options, you don’t say much at all.”

Then he turns to his mother, who’s been quietly watching us.

“So, Mom, what made you rush over here in this kind of weather?” he asks casually. “Actually, never mind. Elena already called and apologized for oversharing and… embellishing the story a bit.”

He throws his hands up. “As you can see, I’m still very much single and not hiding anyone from you.”

Mrs. Taylor rolls her eyes. The lines on her face soften, and the smile returns. She looks at her son with affection as she opens the bag of pastries.

“Well, the girls almost clawed each other’s eyes out over you,” she says. “Elena threatened to rip out every last hair on Cynthia’s head if she so much as looked in your direction again. I figured I’d better come sort things out myself.”

“I’ll talk to Elena,” Max mutters, his tone shifting instantly. The humor drains from his face, replaced with that familiar brooding seriousness. “She’s acting like a child.”

“She’s protecting you… from what, though?” his mother wonders aloud, her voice tinged with concern. “You haven’t told me everything, have you? Same old Max—bottling it up, carrying the world on your shoulders like no one else exists. You forget you have a family, one that would gladly carry the load with you.”

She sighs and looks at me with a sad little smile. “I tried to help you two make peace. Cynthia was like a daughter to me, you know that. But maybe it’s time to let that go. When you’re ready, Max… tell me everything. If you think I need to know.”

She stands, brushing imaginary crumbs from her lap.

“Thanks for the pastries, but I should go. I’ll call a cab, don’t worry. Stay home. It’s rude to leave a guest all alone.”

“Mom,” Max calls after her, taking a step forward, but Helga is already heading out of the kitchen. She’s hurt—I can tell. Maybe not by anything he said, but by everything he didn’t.

Of course, I get it. To her, Max will always be her little boy—someone to protect and fuss over. But he’s a grown man now. He has his own life, and some things—especially personal things—just aren’t meant to be shared with your parents. Not out ofsecrecy, but out of love. Because you don’t want to worry them with the weight you’re barely managing to carry yourself.

Max follows his mom out, leaving me behind. An unwilling witness to a conversation that clearly wasn’t meant for my ears.

But now I can’t stop wondering… What really happened between Max and his ex-wife?

Max leaves, and I’m left alone with the baby. Tim falls asleep quickly, and I stay close by, so I don’t even hear Max return. I flinch awake when I finally notice him lying on the bed next to us. He’s reading something, hasn’t realized I’m awake yet. So I lie still, trying to breathe as quietly as possible while watching his profile.

He looks relaxed, totally unbothered by my presence, but somehow the room feels warmer, more comforting, just because he’s in it. It’s a strange feeling that’s hard to put into words, but I know it’s real. We’ve barely spent any time together, and yet it’s enough for me to feel… something. Something soft and uncertain, like the very beginning of affection.

I get so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even notice when Max stops reading. His eyes are on me now. He’s watching me. How long has he been doing that?

“Hey,” I whisper, swallowing the lump in my throat, feeling strangely exposed under his gaze.

“Hey,” he whispers back, careful not to wake Tim. “You hungry? I brought a bunch of food—not the healthiest, but definitely tasty.”

Food. Of course. It’s the only safe topic we ever seem to land on.

“I could’ve made dinner,” I offer, even though I know how that sounds.

“Maybe. In a week or so.” He closes his book and gives me a small shrug. “Just because you’re getting better doesn’t mean you should stop taking care of yourself.”

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