Page 6 of Dirty Puck

“Why?”

“Bree—your address. I’m not fucking around.”

I recited my address back to him.

“Right. See you at three,” he said before hanging up.

See me at three? Benny wouldn’t be a problem. On nights I danced, he stayed the night with the sitter. Mrs. Grazia loved having Benny for sleepovers. Without any grandchildren of her own, she spoiled him something rotten. But seriously—I worked two jobs. Two. He could’ve waited until my day off or hell, even a day where I just worked my cleaning shift.

Whatever.I walked out to my car, heading to pick up Benny at school. The drive took me twenty minutes and I turned into the parking lot.

Like always, Benny stood just inside the glass doors today with Miss April, one of his teachers. The always happy, always smiling Miss April floated through the center like herlife had been fairy-kissed to never have a single problem. She and I were only a couple of years apart in age, but I felt old enough to be her mother most days.

Living the dream.

But then I realized I was as Benny lifted his little arms to me. No shouting at the top of his lungs like other mothers got. My boy was nonverbal. My “Momma” would have to wait a while longer. I bent forward to pick him up, peppering his face with kisses. Same dark brown and darker brown eyes as me, my son was kind of a mini me. I loved that. I loved that he got all of me and none of his deadbeat sperm donor.

“How’s my boy?”

So what he didn’t answer yet? He giggled and squealed, completely owning my heart. “How was he today?” I asked Miss April—wearing her long, golden blonde hair down, a brave move, considering she spent her day with a bunch of sticky-fingered toddlers and preschoolers.

“He had a full day today and he has a painting for you.”

I gasped to show him my delight. “A painting? Benny, did you make momma a painting?” My baby’s smile made everything worth it. “Then let’s go to your cubby so I can see my painting.”

With Benny, the more animated I was with my responses, the more he actually responded. Words were on the horizon, I felt it.

Pride showed through his eyes as he pulled the rolled-up paper from his cubby and handed it to me. “You did this?” I asked excitedly and he granted me another one of his big Benny smiles. “My boy’s an artist!” I shouted. “It looks like we need a new frame.” All artwork in my apartment came care of Benny. My walls showed a progression of his accomplishments. They might’ve looked like nothing—abstract child’s art—to most people, but I saw them as milestones in his development. His therapies were expensive but worth it.

After slipping his jacket over his arms and collecting hislunch box and backpack, I signed him out and headed for his therapy appointment.

My little guy always enjoyed his time there. They made learning fun. I scrolled through my phone watching stupid cooking videos until the therapist called me back to his office.

Normally, I’d have been right in the room with my son—therapists, doctors, a degree didn’t mean you weren’t a perv—but all the kids and therapists worked in the same large room here.

Mr. Tom, Benny’s therapist, looked like a man version of a goofy kid. He wore these thick, black glasses and his hair always looked a mess. He wore Pokémon T-shirts and jeans. And I always got a really good vibe off the guy.

“Please, Ms. Michaels, have a seat.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me ‘Bree’? You see my son three days a week. I think we’re past theMs. and Mr.stage in our professional relationship.”

“Fair enough, Bree.” He walked to sit behind his desk, folding his hands to rest on the desktop, which seemed a little formal for the situation.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He sighed. Fuckingsighed. My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever started with a sigh like that.

“Just spill it,” I demanded.

“Benny is such a good boy.”

“I know.”

“And we’ve been with him for over a year.”

I waited him out.

“As we’ve talked about over the past couple of months, new issues have sprung up. I just don’t think we can do any more for him here at this facility.”

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